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L161— H41 


A WANDERER  IN  HOLLAND 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 


HIGHWAYS  AND  BYWAYS  IN  SUSSEX 
THE  OPEN  ROAD 
THE  FRIENDLY  TOW^^N 


A WANDERER  IN 
HOLLAND 

BY 

E.  V.  LUCAS 


WITH  20  ILLUSTRATIONS  IN  COLOUR  BY  HERBERT  MARSHALL 
AND  34  ILLUSTRATIONS  AFTER  OLD  DUTCH  MASTERS 


FOURTH  EDITION 


NEW  YORK 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

1906 


*D  G 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Preface ......  xi 

CHAPTER  I 

^ Rotterdam  ...........  i 

CHAPTER  II 

The  Dutch  in  English  Literature  ......  19 

CHAPTER  III 

Dordrecht  and  Utrecht 30 

CHAPTER  IV 

'^yDELFT 48 

Vi_ 

CHAPTER  V 

= The  Hague 63 

CHAPTER  VI 

SCHEVENINGEN  AND  KaTWYK  . . . . . . . .85 

CHAPTER  VII 

V Leyden  , . . . . . . . . . . . 94 

CHAPTER  VIII 

~ Leyden^s  Painters,  a Fanatic  and  a Hero  . . . . 107 

CHAPTER  IX 

' Haarlem 12S 

' i 

V 


£3653 


VI 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  X 

PAGE 

Amsterdam 

CHAPTER  XI 

Amsterdam’s  Pictures  173 

CHAPTER  XII 


Around  Amsterdam  : South  and  South-East  . . , , 184 

CHAPTER  XIII 

Around  Amsterdam  : North 195 

CHAPTER  XIV 

Alkmaar  and  Hoorn,  The  Helder  and  Enkhuisen  . . . 206 

CHAPTER  XV 

Friesland:  Stavoren  to  Leeuwarden  .....  226 

CHAPTER  XVI 

Friesland  (continued) : Leeuwarden  and  Neighbourhood  . 235 

CHAPTER  XVII 

Groningen  to  Zutphen  . . 250 

CHAPTER  XVIII 

Arnheim  to  Bergen-op-Zoom  .......  261 

CHAPTER  XIX 


Middelburg 285 

CHAPTER  XX 

Flushing  294 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

IN  COLOUR 


Sunrise  on  the  Maas 

• 

t 

• 

Frontispiece 

Rotterdam 

* 

• 

• 

T 0 face  page  6 

Gouda  ....... 

i8 

The  Great  Church,  Dort 

• 

• 

• 

it 

36 

Utrecht  

tt 

44 

On  the  Beach,  Scheveningen  . 

• 

• 

tt 

92 

Leyden  

• 

• 

9 

tt 

98 

The  Turf  Market,  Haarlem  . 

• 

9 

• 

it 

128 

St.  Nicolas  Church,  Amsterdam 

• 

• 

• 

it 

154 

Canal  in  the  Jews’  Quarter,  Amsterdam 

• 

• 

tt 

162 

VOLENDAM  

tt 

202 

Cheese  Market,  Alkmaar. 

• 

• 

• 

it 

206 

The  Harbour  Tower,  Hoorn  . 

• 

• 

it 

214 

Market  Place,  Weigh-House,  Hoorn 

• 

• 

• 

220 

The  Dromedaris  Tower,  Enkhuisen 

• 

• 

• 

it 

226 

Harlingen 

it 

242 

Kampen  

tt 

256 

Arnheim  ...... 

tt 

264 

The  Market  Place,  Nymwegen 

• 

• 

it 

276 

Middelburg 

♦ 

• 

»l 

286 

vii 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

IN  MONOTONE 

Girl’s  Head.  Jan  Vermeer  of  Delft  (Mauritshuis)  . To  face  page 

The  Store  Cupboard.  Peter  de  Hooch  (Ryks) . . „ 

From  a Photograph  by  Franz  Hanfstaengl 

Portrait  of  a Youth.  Jan  van  Scorel  (Boymans 

Museum,  Rotterdam)  „ 

The  Sick  Woman.  Jan  Steen  (Ryks)  ...  „ 

From  a Photograph  by  Franz  Hanfstaengl 

The  Anxious  Family.  Josef  Israels  ....  „ 

View  of  Dort.  Albert  Cuyp  (Ryks)  ....  „ 

From  a Photograph  by  Franz  Hanfstaengl 

The  Never-Ending  Prayer.  Nicholas  Maes  (Ryks)  „ 

From  a Photograph  by  Franz  Hanfstaengl 

A Lady.  Paulus  Moreelse  (Ryks)  ....  „ 

Pilgrims  to  Jerusalem.  Jan  van  Scorel  (Kunstliefde 

Museum,  Utrecht) „ 

View  of  Delft.  Jan  Vermeer  (Mauritshuis)  . . „ 

From  a Photograph  by  Franz  Hanfstaengl 

The  School  of  Anatomy.  Rembrandt  (Mauritshuis)  „ 

From  a Photograph  by  Franz  Hanfstaengl 

A Young  Woman.  Rembrandt  (Mauritshuis)  • • „ 

The  Steen  Family.  Jan  Steen  (Mauritshuis)  . . „ 

From  a Photograph  by  Franz  Hanfstaengl 

The  Menagerie.  Jan  Steen  (Mauritshuis)  . . „ 

From  a Photograph  by  Franz  Hanfstaengl 

Portrait  of  G.  Bicker,  Landrichter  of  Muiden.  Van 

der  Heist  (Ryks) „ 

From  a Photograph  hy  Hanfstaengl 

yiii 


2 

12 

14 

22 

26 

30 

34 

40 

46 

58 

66 

68 

74 

80 

86 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS  ix 

The  Syndics.  Rembrandt  (Ryks)  . . . , To  face  page  104 

From  a Photograph  by  Franz  Hanfstaengl 

The  Oyster  Feast.  Jan  Steen  (Mauritshuis)  • . „ no 

From  a Photograph  by  Franz  Hanfstaengl 


The  Young  Housekeeper.  Gerard  Dou  (Mauritshuis) 
From  a Photograph  by  Franz  Hanfstaengl 

Breakfast.  Gabriel  Metsu  (Ryks) 

From  a Photograph  by  Franz  Hanfstaengl 


n 


I18 


n 


120 


The  Groote  Kerk.  Johannes  Bosboom  (Boymans 
Museum,  Rotterdam) 


132 


The  Painter  and  his  Wife  (?).  Frans  Hals  (Ryks) 
From  a Photograph  by  Franz  Hanfstaengl 

Group  of  Arquebusiers.  Frans  Hals  (Haarlem) 
From  a Photograph  by  Franz  Hanfstaengl 

The  Cat’s  Dancing  Lesson.  Jan  Steen  (Ryks) 

From  a Photograph  by  Franz  Hanfstaengl 

The  “Night  Watch”.  Rembrandt  (Ryks) 

From  a Photograph  by  Franz  Hanfstaengl 

The  Reader.  Jan  Vermeer  (Ryks)  . . , . 

From  a Photograph  by  Franz  Hanfstaengl 

Milking  Time.  Anton  Mauve 

Paternal  Advice.  Gerard  Terburg  (Ryks) 

From  a Photograph  by  Franz  Hanfstaengl 

The  Spinner.  Nicholas  Maes  (Ryks) . . . . 

From  a Photograph  by  Franz  Hanfstaengl 

Clara  Alewijn.  Dirck  Santvoort  (Ryks)  . 

Family  Scene.  Jan  Steen  (Ryks)  . . . . 

From  a Photograph  by  Franz  Hanfstaengl 

The  Little  Princess.  Paulus  Moreelse  (Ryks) 

From  a Photograph  by  Franz  Hanfstaengl 

The  Shepherd  and  his  Flock.  Anton  Mauve 


144 

150 

158 

176 

178 

186 

190 

230 

236 

246 

272 

280 


Helene  van  der  Schalke.  Gerard  Terburg  (Ryks) . ,,  290 

From  a Photograph  by  Franz  Hanfstaengl 

Elizabeth  Bas.  Rembrandt  (Ryks)  ....  ,,  298 

From  a Photograph  by  Franz  Hanfstaengl 


b 


PREFACE 


J T would  be  useless  to  pretend  that  this  book 
is  authoritatively  informing.  It  is  a series 
of  personal  impressions  of  the  Dutch  country  and 
the  Dutch  people,  gathered  during  three  visits, 
together  with  an  accretion  of  matter,  more  or 
less  pertinent,  drawn  from  many  sources,  old  and 
new,  to  which  I hope  I have  given  unity.  For 
trustworthy  information  upon  the  more  serious 
side  of  Dutch  life  and  character  I would 
recommend  Mr.  Meldrum’s  Holland  and  the 
Hollanders.  My  thanks  are  due  to  my  friends, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Emil  Liiden,  for  saving  me  from 
many  errors  by  reading  this  work  in  MS. 

E.  V.  L. 


XI 


i 


1- 

ii- 


|(?  Map  to  illuftrate 
Wanderer  272  HOLLAND” 

^ 3 

Reference  fo  Provinces  . 

TV.  7C  Jiollai'S)^ 

B . ZHollai'S^ 

D . Xjtvecht iS\zetLi^Siep7 

E.  (^elderlarQ^  ' 

F . J\/?'^raI?ant-^  K.  ^rentht^ 

G.  lirnbwf^^  L.  0ronjLn^en' 

H.  Over^fieL^  M.  frl^flccrS)^ 

'£ailu?cQrs  thus 


A WANDERER  IN  HOLLAND 


CHAPTER  I 

ROTTERDAM 

To  Rotterdam  by  water — To  Rotterdam  by  rail — Holland’s  monotony  of 
scenery — Holland  in  England — Rotterdam’s  few  merits — The  life  of 
the  river — The  Rhine — Walt  Whitman — Crowded  canals — Barge 
life — The  Dutch  high-ways — A perfect  holiday — The  canal’s  in- 
fluence on  the  national  character — The  florin  and  the  franc — Lady 
Mary  Wortley  Montagu — The  old  and  the  poor-r-Holland’s  health — 
Funeral  customs — The  chemists’  shops — Erasmus  of  Rotterdam — 
Latinised  names — Peter  de  Hooch — True  aristocracy — The  Boy- 
mans  treasures — Modern  Dutch  art — Matthew  Maris — The  Rotter- 
dam Zoo— The  herons — The  stork’s  mission — The  ourang-outang — 
An  eighteenth-century  miser  — A successful  merchant — The  Queen- 
Mother — Tom  Hood  in  Rotterdam — Gouda. 

IT  was  once  possible  to  sail  all  the  way  to  Rotterdam 
by  either  of  the  two  lines  of  steamships  from  England 
— the  Great  Eastern,  via  Harwich,  and  the  Batavier,  direct 
from  London.  But  that  is  possible  now  only  by  the 
Batavier,  passengers  by  the  better- known  Harwich  route 
being  landed  now  and  henceforward  at  the  Hook  at 
five  A.M.  I am  sorry  for  this,  because  after  a rough  pass- 
age it  was  very  pleasant  to  glide  in  the  early  morning 
steadily  up  the  Maas  and  gradually  acquire  a sense  of 
Dutch  quietude  and  greyness.  No  longer,  however,  can 
this  be  done,  as  the  Batavier  boats  reach  Rotterdam  at 
night ; and  one  therefore  misses  the  river,  with  the  little 

I 


2 


THE  CHARM  OF  MONOTONY 


villages  on  its  banks,  each  with  a tiny  canal-harbour  of  its 
own ; the  groups  of  trees  in  the  early  mist ; the  gulls  and 
herons;  and  the  increasing  traffic  as  one  drew  nearer 
Schiedam  and  at  last  reached  that  forest  of  masts  which 
is  known  as  Rotterdam. 

But  now  that  the  only  road  to  Rotterdam  by  daylight  is 
the  road  of  iron  all  that  is  past,  and  yet  there  is  some  com- 
pensation, for  short  as  the  journey  is  one  may  in  its  pro- 
gress ground  oneself  very  thoroughly  in  the  characteristic 
scenery  of  Holland.  No  one  who  looks  steadily  out  of  the 
windows  between  the  Hook  and  Rotterdam  has  much  to 
learn  thereafter.  Only  changing  skies  and  atmospheric 
effects  can  provide  him  with  novelty,  for  most  of  Holland 
is  like  that.  He  has  the  formula.  Nor  is  it  necessarily 
new  to  him  if  he  knows  England  well,  North  Holland 
being  merely  the  Norfolk  Broads,  the  Essex  marshlands 
about  Burnham-on-Crouch,  extended.  Only  in  its  pecu- 
liarity of  light  and  in  its  towns  has  Holland  anything  that 
we  have  not  at  home. 

England  has  even  its  canal  life  too,  if  one  cared  to  in- 
vestigate it;  the  Broads  are  populous  with  wherries  and 
barges ; cheese  is  manufactured  in  England  in  a score  of 
districts ; cows  range  our  meadows  as  they  range  the 
meadows  of  the  Dutch.  We  go  to  Holland  to  see  the 
towns,  the  pictures  and  the  people.  We  go  also  because 
so  many  of  us  are  so  constituted  that  we  never  use  our 
eyes  until  we  are  on  foreign  soil.  It  is  as  though  a Cook’s 
ticket  performed  an  operation  for  cataract. 

But  because  one  can  learn  the  character  of  Dutch 
sceneiy  so  quickly — on  a single  railway  journey — I do  not 
wish  to  suggest  that  henceforward  it  becomes  monotonous 
and  trite.  One  may  learn  the  character  of  a friend  very 
quickly,  and  yet  wish  to  be  in  his  company  continually. 
Holland  is  one  of  the  most  delightful  countries  to  move 


GIRI.S  HEAD 

JAN  VERMEER  OF  DELFT 
From  the  picUire  iii  the  Man?-itshiiis 


THE  RHINE  AND  THE  THAMES 


3 


about  in : everything  that  happens  in  it  is  of  interest.  I 
have  never  quite  lost  the  sense  of  excitement  in  crossing  a 
canal  in  the  train  and  getting  a momentary  glimpse  of  its 
receding  straightness,  perhaps  broken  by  a brown  sail.  In 
a country  where,  between  the  towns,  so  little  happens,  even 
the  slightest  things  make  a heightened  appeal  to  the  ob- 
server; while  one’s  eyes  are  continually  kept  bright  and 
one’s  mind  stimulated  by  the  ever-present  freshness  and 
clearness  of  the  land  and  its  air. 

Rotterdam,  it  should  be  said  at  once,  is  not  a pleasant 
city.  It  must  be  approached  as  a centre  of  commerce  and 
maritime  industry,  or  not  at  all  ; if  you  do  not  like  sailor 
men  and  sailor  ways,  noisy  streets  and  hurrying  people, 
leave  Rotterdam  behind,  and  let  the  train  carry  you  to  The 
Hague.  It  is  not  even  particularly  Dutch  : it  is  cosmo- 
politan. The  Dutch  are  quieter  than  this,  and  cleaner. 
And  yet  Rotterdam  is  unique — its  church  of  St.  Lawrence 
has  a grey  and  sombre  tower  which  has  no  equal  in  the 
country ; there  is  a windmill  on  the  Cool  Singel  which  is 
essentially  Holland ; the  Boymans  Museum  has  a few  admir- 
able pictures  ; there  is  a curiously  fascinating  stork  in  the 
Zoological  Gardens  ; and  the  river  is  a scene  of  romantic 
energy  by  dav  and  night.  I think  you  must  go  to  Rotter- 
dam, though  it  be  only  for  a few  hours. 

At  Rotterdam  we  see  what  the  Londoner  misses  by 
having  a river  that  is  navigable  in  the  larger  sense  only 
below  his  city.  To  see  shipping  at  home  we  must  make 
our  tortuous  way  to  the  Pool ; Rotterdam  has  the  Pool 
in  her  midst.  Great  ships  pass  up  and  down  all  day. 
The  Thames,  once  its  bustling  mercantile  life  is  cut  short 
by  London  Bridge,  dwindles  to  a stream  of  pleasure  ; the 
Maas  becomes  the  Rhine. 

Walt  Whitman  is  the  only  writer  who  has  done  justice 
to  a great  harbour,  and  he  only  by  that  sheer  force  of 


4 


WALT  ON  THE  HARBOUR 


enumeration  which  in  this  connection  rather  stands  for  than 
is  poetry.  As  a matter  of  fact  it  is  the  reader  of  such  an 
inventory  as  we  find  in  “ Crossing  Brooklyn  Feny  ” that  is 
the  poet:  Whitman  is  only  the  - machinery.  Whitman 
gives  the  suggestion  and  the  reader’s  own  memory  or 
imagination  does  the  rest.  Many  of  the  lines  might  as 
easily  have  been  written  of  Rotterdam  as  of  Brooklyn ; — 

The  sailors  at  work  in  the  rigging  or  out  astride  the  spars, 

The  round  masts,  the  swinging  motion  of  the  hulls,  the  slender  serpentine 
pennants, 

The  large  and  small  steamers  in  motion,  the  pilots  in  their  pilot-houses, 
The  white  wake  left  by  the  passage,  the  quick  tremulous  whirl  of  the 
wheels, 

The  flags  of  all  nations,  the  falling  of  them  at  sunset. 

The  scallop-edged  waves  in  the  twilight,  the  ladled  cups,  the  frolicsome 
crests  and  glistening, 

The  stretch  afar  growing  dimmer  and  dimmer,  the  grey  walls  of  the 
granite  storehouses  by  the  docks. 

On  the  river  the  shadowy  group,  the  big  steam-tug  closely  flank’d  on  each 
side  by  the  barges,  the  hay-boat,  the  belated  lighter, 

On  the  neighbouring  shore  the  fires  from  the  foundry  chimneys  burning 
high  and  glaringly  into  the  night. 

Casting  their  flicker  of  black  contrasted  with  wild  red  and  yellow  light 
over  the  tops  of  the  houses,  and  down  into  the  clefts  of  streets. 

There  is  of  course  nothing  odd  in  the  description  of  one 
harbour  fitting  another,  for  harbours  have  no  one  nation- 
ality but  all.  Whitman  was  not  otherwise  very  strong 
upon  Holland.  He  writes  in  ‘^Salut  au  Monde’’  of  ‘^the 
sail  and  steamships  of  the  world  ” which  in  his  mind’s  eye 
he  beholds  as  they 

Wait  steam’d  up  ready  to  start  in  the  ports  of  Australia, 

Wait  at  Liverpool,  Glasgow,  Dublin,  Marseilles,  Lisbon,  Naples 
Hamburg,  Bremen,  Bordeaux,  The  Hague,  Copenhagen. 

It  is  not  easy  for  one  of  the  sail  or  steamships  of  the 
world  ” to  wait  steamed  up  at  The  Hague  ; because  The 
Hague  has  no  harbour  except  for  small  craft  and  barges. 


SPRING  CLEANING  PASSIM 


5 


Shall  we  assume,  with  great  charity,  that  Walt  feared  that 
the  word  Rotterdam  might  impair  his  rhythm  ? 

Not  only  big  shipping : I think  one  may  see  barges  and 
canal  boats  in  greater  variety  at  Rotterdam  than  anywhere 
else.  One  curious  thing  to  be  noticed  as  they  lie  at  rest 
in  the  canals  is  the  absence  of  men.  A woman  is  always 
there  ; her  husband  only  rarely.  The  only  visible  captain 
is  the  fussy,  shrewish  little  dog  which,  suspicious  of  the 
whole  world,  patrols  the  boat  from  stem  to  stern,  and  warns 
you  that  it  is  against  the  law  even  to  look  at  his  property. 
I hope  his  bite  is  not  equal  to  his  bark. 

Every  barge  has  its  name.  What  the  popular  style  was 
seven  years  ago,  when  I was  here  last,  I cannot  remember ; 
but  to-day  it  is  Wilhelmina’’.  English  suburban  villas 
have  not  a greater  variety  of  fantastic  names  than  the  canal 
craft  of  Holland ; nor,  with  all  our  monopoly  of  the  word 
home,’’  does  the  English  suburban  villa  suggest  more  com- 
pact cosiness  than  one  catches  gleams  of  through  their  cabin 
windows  or  down  their  companions. 

Spring  cleaning  goes  on  here,  as  in  the  Dutch  houses,  all 
the  year  round,  and  the  domiciliary  part  of  the  vessels  is 
spotless.  Every  bulwark  has  a washing  tray  that  can  be 
fixed  or  detached  in  a moment.  “ It’s  a fine  day,  let  us 
kill  something,”  says  the  Englishman ; Here’s  an  odd 
moment,  let  us  wash  something,”  says  the  Dutch  vrouw. 

In  some  of  the  Rotterdam  canals  the  barges  are  so 
packed  that  they  lie  touching  each  other,  with  their 
burgees  flying  all  in  the  same  direction,  as  the  vanes  of 
St.  Sepulchre’s  in  Holborn  cannot  do.  How  they  ever  get 
disentangled  again  and  proceed  on  their  free  way  to  their* 
distant  homes  is  a mystery.  But  in  the  shipping  world 
incredible  things  can  happen  at  night. 

One  does  not,  perhaps,  in  Rotterdam  realise  all  at  once 


6 


A LOTOS-EATER 


that  every  drop  of  water  in  these  city-bound  canals  is 
related  to  every  other  drop  of  water  in  the  other  canals  of 
Holland,  however  distant.  From  any  one  canal  you  can  reach 
in  time  every  other.  The  canal  is  really  much  more  the 
high  road  of  the  country  than  the  road  itself.  The  barge 
is  the  Pickford  van  of  Holland.  Here  we  see  some  of  the 
secret  of  the  Dutch  deliberateness.  A country  which  must 
wait  for  its  goods  until  a barge  brings  them  has  every 
opportunity  of  acquiring  philosophic  phlegm. 

After  a while  one  gets  accustomed  to  the  ever-present 
canal  and  the  odd  spectacle  (to  us)  of  masts  in  the  streets 
and  sails  in  the  fields.  All  the  Dutch  towns  are  amphibious, 
but  some  are  more  watery  than  others. 

The  Dutch  do  not  use  their  wealth  of  water  as  we  should. 
They  do  not  swim  in  it,  they  do  not  race  on  it,  they  do  not 
row  for  pleasure  at  all.  Water  is  them  servant,  never  a 
light-hearted  companion. 

I can  think  of  no  more  reposeful  holiday  than  to  step  on 
board  one  of  these  barges  wedged  together  in  a Rotter- 
dam canal,  and  never  lifting  a finger  to  alter  the  natm'al 
course  of  events — to  accelerate  or  divert — be  carried  by  it 
to,  say,  Harlingen,  in  Friesland:  betw^een  the  meadows; 
under  the  noses  of  the  great  black  and  white  cows ; past 
herons  fishing  in  the  rushes ; through  little  villages  with 
dazzling  milk-cans  being  scoured  on  the  banks,  and  the 
good-wives  washing,  and  saturnine  smokers  in  black  velvet 
slippers  passing  the  time  of  day  ; through  big  towns,  by  rows 
of  sombre  houses  seen  thi’ough  a delicate  screen  of  leaves ; 
under  low  bridges  crowded  with  children ; through  naiTow 
locks ; ever  moving,  moving,  slowly  and  surely,  sometimes 
sailing,  sometimes  quanting,  sometimes  being  towed,  with 
the  wide  Dutch  sky  overhead,  and  the  plovers  crying  in  it, 
and  the  clean  west  wind  driving  the  windmills,  and  every- 


ROTTERDAM 


THE  FLORIN  AND  THE  FRANC 


7 


thing  just  as  it  was  in  Rembrandt’s  day  and  just  as  it  will 
be  five  hundred  years  hence. 

Holland  when  all  is  said  is  a country  of  canals.  It  may 
have  cities  and  pictures,  windmills  and  cows,  quaint  build- 
ings, and  quainter  costumes,  but  it  is  a country  of  canals 
before  all.  The  canals  set  the  tune.  The  canals  keep  it 
deliberate  and  wise. 

One  can  be  in  Rotterdam,  or  in  whatever  town  one’s 
travels  really  begin,  but  a very  short  time  without  dis- 
covering that  the  Dutch  unit — the  florin— is  a very 
unsatisfactory  servant.  The  dearness  of  Holland  strikes 
one  continually,  but  it  does  so  with  peculiar  force  if  one 
has  crossed  the  frontier  from  Belgium,  where  the  unit  is 
a franc.  It  is  too  much  to  say  that  a sovereign  in  Holland 
is  worth  only  twelve  shillings : the  case  is  not  quite  so 
extreme  as  that;  but  a sovereign  in  Belgium  is,  for  all 
practical  purposes,  worth  twenty-five  shillings,  and  the 
contrast  after  reaching  Dutch  soil  is  very  striking.  One 
has  to  recollect  that  the  spidery  letter  f,”  which  in  those 
friendly  little  restaurants  in  the  Rue  Hareng  at  Brussels 
had  stood  for  a fi^anc,  now  symbolises  that  far  more  serious 
item  the  florin;  and  f.  1.50,  which  used  to  be  a trifle  of 
one  and  threepence,  is  now  half  a crown. 

Even  in  our  own  country,  where  we  know  something 
about  the  cost  of  things,  we  are  continually  conscious  of 
the  fallacy  embodied  in  the  statement  that  a sovereign  is 
equal  to  twenty  shillings.  We  know  that  in  theory  that 
is  so ; but  we  know  also  that  it  is  so  only  as  long  as  the 
sovereign  remains  unchanged.  Change  it  and  it  is  worth 
next  to  nothing — half  a sovereign  and  a little  loose  silver. 
But  in  Holland  the  disparity  is  even  more  pathetic.  To 
change  a sovereign  there  strikes  one  as  the  most  ridiculous 
business  transaction  of  one’s  life. 


8 


TWO  HUNDRED  YEARS  AGO 


Certain  things  in  Holland  are  dear  beyond  all  under- 
standing. At  The  Hague,  for  example,  we  drank  Eau 
d’Evian,  a very  popular  bottled  water  for  which  in  any 
French  restaurant  one  expects  to  pay  a few  pence ; and 
when  the  bill  arrived  this  simple  fluid  cut  such  a dashing 
figure  in  it  that  at  first  I could  not  recognise  it  at  all. 
When  I put  the  matter  to  the  landlord,  he  explained  that 
the  duty  made  it  impossible  for  him  to  charge  less  than 
f.  1.50  (or  half  a crown)  a bottle;  but  I am  told  that  his 
excuse  was  too  fanciful.  None  the  less,  half  a crown  was 
the  charge,  and  apparently  no  one  objects  to  pay  it.  The 
Dutch,  on  pleasure  or  eating  bent,  are  prepared  to  pay 
anything.  One  would  expect  to  get  a reasonable  claret 
for  such  a figure  ; but  not  in  Holland.  Wine  is  good  there, 
but  it  is  not  cheap.  Only  in  one  hotel — and  that  in  the 
unspoiled  north,  at  Groningen — did  I see  wine  placed  auto- 
matically upon  the  table,  as  in  France. 

Rotterdam  must  have  changed  for  the  worse  under 
modern  conditions  ; for  it  is  no  longer  as  it  was  in  Lady 
Mary  Wortley  Montagu’s  day.  From  Rotterdam  in  1716 
she  sent  the  Countess  of  Mar  a pretty  account  of  the  city  : 
All  the  streets  are  paved  with  broad  stones,  and  before 
the  meanest  artificers’  doors  seats  of  various  coloured 
marbles,  and  so  neatly  kept  that,  I will  assure  you,  I 
walked  all  over  the  town  yesterday,  incognita^  in  my 
slippers,  without  receiving  one  spot  of  dirt ; and  you  may 
see  the  Dutch  maids  washing  the  pavement  of  the  street 
with  more  application  than  ours  do  our  bed-chambers.  The 
town  seems  so  full  of  people,  with  such  busy  faces,  all  in 
motion,  that  I can  hardly  fancy  that  it  is  not  some  cele- 
brated fair ; but  I see  it  is  every  da.y  the  same. 

The  shops  and  warehouses  are  of  a surprising  neatness 
and  magnificence,  filled  with  an  incredible  quantity  of  fine 


A COMPETENCY  EVERYWHERE 


9 


merchandise,  and  so  much  cheaper  than  what  we  see  in 
England,  I have  much  ado  to  persuade  myself  I am  still 
so  near  it.  Here  is  neither  dirt  nor  beggary  to  be  seen. 
One  is  not  shocked  with  those  loathsome  cripples,  so  common 
in  London,  nor  teased  with  the  importunities  of  idle  fellows 
and  wenches,  that  choose  to  be  nasty  and  lazy.  The 
common  servants  and  the  little  shopwomen  here  are  more 
nicely  clean  than  most  of  our  ladies  ; and  the  great  variety 
of  neat  dresses  (every  woman  dressing  her  head  after  her 
own  fashion)  is  an  additional  pleasure  in  seeing  the  town.” 

The  claims  of  business  have  now  thrust  aside  many  of 
the  little  refinements  described  by  Lady  Mary,  her  descrip- 
tion of  which  has  but  to  be  transferred  to  some  of  the 
smaller  Dutch  towns  to  be  however  in  the  main  still  ac- 
curate. But  what  she  says  of  the  Dutch  servants  is  true 
everywhere  to  this  minute.  There  are  none  more  fresh  and 
capable ; none  who  carry  their  lot  with  more  quiet  dignity. 
Not  the  least  part  of  the  very  warm  hospitality  which  is 
offered  in  Dutch  houses  is  played  by  the  friendliness  of  the 
servants. 

Every  one  in  Holland  seems  to  have  enough ; no  one  too 
much.  Great  wealth  there  may  be  among  the  merchants, 
but  it  is  not  ostentatious.  Holland  still  seems  to  have  no 
poor  in  the  extreme  sense  of  the  word,  no  rags.  Doubtless 
the  labourers  that  one  sees  are  working  at  a low  rate,  but 
they  are  probably  living  comfortably  at  a lower,  and  are  not 
to  be  pitied  except  by  those  who  still  cherish  the  illusion 
that  riches  mean  happiness.  The  dirt  and  poverty  that 
exist  in  every  English  town  and  village  are  very  uncommon. 
Nor  does  one  see  maimed,  infirm  or  very  old  people,  except 
now  and  then — so  rarely  as  at  once  to  be  reminded  of  their 
rarity. 

One  is  struck,  even  in  Rotterdam,  which  is  a peculiarly 


10 


THE  RITUAL  OF  DISSOLUTION 


strenuous  town,  by  the  ruddy  health  of  the  people  in  the 
streets.  In  England,  as  one  walks  about,  one  sees  too  often 
the  shadow  of  Death  on  this  face  and  that ; but  in  Holland 
it  is  difficult  to  believe  in  his  power,  the  people  have  so 
prosperous,  so  permanent,  an  air. 

That  the  Dutch  die  there  is  no  doubt,  for  a funeral  is 
an  almost  daily  object,  and  the  aanspreker  is  continually 
hurrying  by;  but  where  are  the  dead?  The  cemeteries 
are  minute,  and  the  churches  have  no  churchyards.  Of 
Death,  however,  when  he  comes  the  nation  is  very  proud. 
The  mourning  customs  are  severe  and  enduring.  No  ex- 
pense is  spared  in  spreading  the  interesting  tidings.  It  is 
for  this  purpose  that  the  aanspreker  flourishes  in  his  impor- 
tance and  pomp.  Draped  heavily  in  black,  from  house  to 
house  he  moves,  wherever  the  slightest  ties  of  personal  or 
business  acquaintanceship  exist,  and  announces  his  news. 
A lady  of  Hilversum  tells  me  that  she  was  once  formal^ 
the  recipient  of  the  message,  ‘‘Please,  ma’am,  the  baker’s 
compliments,  and  he’s  dead,”  the  time  and  place  of  the 
interment  following.  I said  draped  in  black,  but  the 
aanspreker  is  not  so  monotonous  an  official  as  that.  He 
has  his  subtleties,  his  nuances.  If  the  deceased  is  a child, 
he  adds  a white  rosette ; if  a bachelor  or  a maid,  he  in- 
timates the  fact  by  degrees  of  trimming. 

The  aanspreker  was  once  occasionally  assisted  by  the 
huilebalk,  but  I am  afraid  his  day  is  over.  The  huilebalk 
accompanied  the  aansprekers  from  house  to  house  and  wept 
on  the  completion  of  their  sad  message.  He  wore  a wide- 
awake hat  with  a very  large  brim  and  a long-tailed  coat. 
If  properly  paid,  says  my  informant,  real  tears  coursed 
down  his  cheeks  ; in  any  case  his  presence  was  a luxury 
possible  only  to  the  rich. 

The  aanspreker  is  called  in  also  at  the  other  end  of 


DRUGS  AND  NONCHALANCE 


11 


life.  Assuming  a more  jocund  air,  he  trips  from  house  to 
house  announcing  little  strangers. 

That  the  Dutch  are  a healthy  people  one  might  gather 
also  from  the  character  of  their  druggists.  In  this  country, 
even  in  very  remote  towns,  one  may  reveal  one^s  symptoms 
to  a chemist  or  his  assistant  feeling  certain  that  he  will 
know  more  or  less  what  to  prescribe.  But  in  Holland  the 
chemists  are  often  young  women,  who  preside  over  shops 
in  which  one  cannot  repose  any  confidence.  One  likes  a 
chemist’s  shop  at  least  to  look  as  if  it  contained  reasonable 
remedies.  These  do  not.  Either  our  shops  contain  too 
many  drugs  or  these  too  few.  The  chemist’s  sign,  a large 
comic  head  with  its  mouth  wide  open  (known  as  the 
gaper),  is  also  subversive  of  confidence.  A chemist’s  shop 
is  no  place  for  jokes.  In  Holland  one  must  in  short  do 
as  the  Dutch  do,  and  remain  well. 

' Rotterdam’s  first  claim  to  consideration,  apart  from  its 
fjommercial  importance,  is  that  it  gave  birth  to  Erasmus, 
a bronze  statue  of  whom  stands  in  the  Groote  Market, 
looking  down  on  the  stalls  of  fruit.  Erasmus  of  Rotter- 
dam— it  sounds  like  a contradiction  in  terms.  Gherardt 
Gherardts  of  Rotterdam  is  a not  dishonourable  cacophany 
— and  that  was  the  reformer’s  true  name ; but  the  fashion 
of  the  time  led  scholars  to  adopt  a Hellenised,  or  Latinised, 
style.  Erasmus  Desiderius,  his  new  name,  means  Beloved 
and  long  desired.  Grotius,  Barlaeus,  Vossius,  Arminius,  all 
sacrificed  local  colour  to  smooth  syllables.  We  should  be 
very  grateful  that  the  fashion  did  not  spread  also  to  the 
painters.  What  a loss  it  would  be  had  the  magnificent 
rugged  name  of  Rembrandt  van  Rhyn  been  exchanged  for 
a smooth  emasculated  Latinism. 

Rotterdam  had  another  illustrious  son  whose  work  as 
little  suggests  his  birthplace — the  exquisite  painter  Peter 


12 


TRUE  ARISTOCRACY 


de  Hooch.  According  to  the  authorities  he  modelled  his 
style  upon  Rembrandt  and  Fabritius,  but  the  influence  of 
Rembrandt  is  concealed  fi'om  the  superficial  observer.  De 
Hooch,  whose  pictures  are  very  scarce,  worked  chiefly  at 
Delft  and  Haarlem',  and  it  was  at  Haarlem  that  he  died 
in  1681.  If  one  were  put  to  it  to  find  a new  standard  of 
aristocracy  superior  to  accidents  of  blood  or  rank  one 
might  do  worse  than  demand  as  the  ultimate  test  the  pos- 
session of  either  a Vermeer  of  Delft  or  a Peter  de  Hooch. 

One  only  of  Peter  de  Hooch’s  pictures  is  reproduced  in 
this  book — The  Store  Cupboard  This  is  partly  because 
there  are,  I think,  better  paintings  of  his  in  London  than 
at  Amsterdam.  At  least  it  seems  to  me  that  his  picture 
in  our  National  Gallery  of  the  waiting  maid  is  finer  than 
anything  by  De  Hooch  in  Holland.  But  in  no  other  work 
of  his  that  I know  is  his  simple  charm  so  apparent  as  in 

The  Store  Cupboard  This  is  surely  the  Christmas 
supplement  earned  out  to  its  highest  power — and  by  its 
inventor.  The  thousands  of  domestic  scenes  which  have 
proceeded  from  this  one  canvas  make  the  memory  reel ; and 
yet  nothing  has  staled  the  prototype.  It  remains  a sweet 
and  genuine  and  radiant  thing.  De  Hooch  had  two 
fetishes — a rich  crimson  dress  or  jacket  and  an  open  door. 
His  compatriot  Vermeer,  whom  he  sometimes  resembles, 
was  similarly  addicted  to  a note  of  blue. 

No  one  has  managed  direct  sunlight  so  well  as  De 
Hooch.  The  light  in  his  rooms  is  the  light  of  day.  One 
can  almost  understand  how  Rembrandt  and  Gerard  Dou 
got  their  concentrated  effects  of  illumination;  but  how 
this  omnipresent  radiance  streamed  from  De  Hooch’s 
palette  is  one  of  the  mysteries.  It  is  as  though  he  did  not 
paint  light  but  found  light  on  his  canvas  and  painted 
everything  else  in  its  midst, 


THE  STORE  CUPBOARD 

PETER  DE  HOOCH 
From  the  picture  in  the  Ryks  Museum 


SOME  ROTTERDAM  PICTURES 


13 


Rotterdam  has  some  excellent  pictures  in  its  Boymans 
Museum;  but  they  are,  I fancy,  overlooked  by  many 
visitors.  It  seems  no  city  in  which  to  see  pictures.  It  is 
a city  for  anything  rather  than  art — a mercantile  centre, 
a hive  of  bees,  a shipping  port  of  intense  activity.  And 
yet  perhaps  the  quietest  little  Albert  Cuyp  in  Holland  is 
here,  ‘‘  De  Oude  Oostpoort  te  Rotterdam,’’  a small  evening 
scene,  without  cattle,  suffused  in  a golden  glow.  But  all 
the  Cuyps,  and  there  are  six,  are  good — all  inhabited  by 
their  own  light. 

Among  the  other  Boymans  treasures  which  I find  I 
have  marked  (not  necessarily  because  they  are  good — for 
I am  no  judge — but  because  I liked  them)  are  Ferdinand 
Bol’s  fine  free  portrait  of  Dirck  van  der  Waeijen,  a boy 
in  a yellow  coat;  Erckhart’s  ^‘Boaz  and  Ruth,”  a small 
sombre  canvas  with  a suggestion  of  Velasquez  in  it ; 
Hobbema’s  ‘‘Boomrijk  Landschap,”  one  of  the  few  paint- 
ings of  this  artist  that  Holland  possesses.  The  English, 
I might  remark,  always  appreciative  judges  of  Dutch  art, 
have  been  particularly  assiduous  in  the  pursuit  of  Hob- 
bema, with  the  result  that  his  best  work  is  in  our  country. 
Holland  has  nothing  of  his  to  compare  with  the  Avenue 
at  Middelharnis,”  one  of  the  gems  of  our  National  Gallery. 
And  his  feathery  trees  may  be  studied  at  the  Wallace 
Collection  in  great  comfort. 

Other  fine  landscapes  in  the  Boymans  Museum  are  three 
by  Johan  van  Kessel,  who  was  a pupil  of  Hobbema,  one 
by  Jan  van  der  Meer,  one  by  Koninck,  and,  by  Jacob  van 
Ruisdael,  a cornfield  in  the  sun  and  an  Amsterdam  canal 
with  white  sails  upon  it.  The  most  notable  head  is  that 
by  Karel  Fabritius ; Hendrick  Pot’s  Het  Lokstertje  ” 
is  interesting  for  its  large  free  manner  and  signs  of  the 
influence  of  Hals ; and  Emmanuel  de  Witte’s  Amsterdam 


14 


MODERN  DUTCH  PAINTERS 


fishmarket  is  curiously  modern.  But  the  figure  picture 
which  most  attracted  me  was  ‘‘Portret  van  een  jongeling/’ 
by  Jan  van  Scorel,  of  whom  we  shall  learn  more  at  Utrecht. 
This  little  portrait,  which  I reproduce  on  the  opposite 
page,  is  wholly  charming  and  vivid. 

The  Boymans  Museum  contains  also  modern  Dutch 
paintings.  Wherever  modern  Dutch  paintings  are  to 
be  seen,  I look  first  for  the  delicate  art  of  Matthew  Maris, 
and  next  for  Anton  Mauve.  Here  there  is  no  Matthew 
Maris,  and  but  one  James  Maris.  There  is  one  Mauve. 
The  modern  Dutch  painter  for  the  most  part  paints  the 
same  picture  so  often.  But  Matthew  Maris  is  full  of  sur- 
prises. If  a new  picture  by  any  of  his  contemporaries 
stood  with  its  face  to  the  wall  one  would  know  what  to 
expect.  From  Israels,  a fisherman’s  wife ; from  Mesdag, 
a grey  stretch  of  sea ; from  Bosboom,  a superb  church 
interior ; from  Mauve,  a peasant  with  sheep  or  a peasant 
with  a cow ; from  Weissenbruch,  a stream  and  a willow ; 
from  Breitner,  an  Amsterdam  street  ; from  James  Maris 
a masterly  scene  of  boats  and  wet  sky.  Usually  one  would 
have  guessed  aright.  But  with  Matthew  Maris  is  no 
certainty.  It  may  be  a little  dainty  girl  lying  on  her  side 
and  watching  butterflies ; it  may  be  a sombre  hillside  at 
Montmartre ; it  may  be  a girl  cooking ; it  may  be  scaf- 
folding in  Amsterdam,  or  a mere  at  evening,  or  a baby’s 
head,  or  a village  street.  He  has  many  moods,  and  he  is 
always  distinguished  and  subtle. 

Rotterdam  has  a zoological  garden  which,  although 
inferior  to  ours,  is  far  better  than  that  at  Amsterdam, 
while  it  converts  The  Hague’s  Zoo  into  a travesty.  Last 
spring  the  lions  were  in  splendid  condition.  They  are  well 
housed,  but  fewer  distractions  are  provided  for  them  than 
in  Regent’s  Park.  I found  myself  fascinated  by  the  herons. 


PORTRAIT  OF  A YOUTH 

JAN  VAN  SCOREL 

From  the  picture  in  the  Boytnans  Musettm,  Rotterdam 


THE  STORK 


15 


who  were  continually  soaring  out  over  the  neighbouring 
houses  and  returning  like  darkening  clouds.  In  England, 
although  the  heron  is  a native,  we  rarely  seem  to  see  him ; 
while  to  study  him  is  extremely  difficult.  In  Holland  he 
is  ubiquitous  : both  wild  and  tame. 

More  interesting  still  was  the  stork,  whose  nest  is  set 
high  on  a pinnacle  of  the  buffalo  house.  He  was  building 
in  the  leisurely  style  of  the  British  working  man.  He 
would  negligently  descend  from  the  heavens  with  a stick. 
This  he  would  lay  on  the  fabric  and  then  carefully  perform 
his  toilet,  looking  round  and  down  all  the  time  to  see  that 
every  one  else  was  busy.  Whenever  his  eye  lighted  upon 
a toddling  child  or  a perambulator  it  visibly  brightened. 

My  true  work  ! ” he  seemed  to  say  ; this  nest  building 
is  a mere  by-path  of  industry.”  After  prinking  and  over- 
looking, and  congratulating  himself  thus,  for  a few  minutes, 
he  would  stroll  off,  over  the  housetops,  for  another  stick. 
He  was  the  unquestionable  King  of  the  Garden. 

Why  are  there  no  heronries  in  the  English  public  parks  ? 
And  why  is  there  no  stork  ? The  Dutch  have  a proverb. 

Where  the  stork  abides  no  mother  dies  in  childbed  ”. 
Still  more,  why  are  there  no  storks  in  France.?  The 
author  of  Fecondite  should  have  imported  them. 

No  Zoo,  however  well  managed,  can  keep  an  ourang- 
outang  long,  and  therefore  one  should  always  study  that 
uncomfortably  human  creature  whenever  the  opportunity 
occurs.  I had  great  fortune  at  Rotterdam,  for  I chanced 
to  be  in  the  ourang-outang’s  house  when  his  keeper 
came  in.  Entering  the  enclosure,  he  romped  with  him 
in  a score  of  diverting  ways.  They  embraced  each  other, 
fed  each  other,  teased  each  other.  The  humanness  of 
the  creature  was  frightful.  Perhaps  our  likeness  to 
ourang-outangs  (except  for  our  ridiculously  short  arms. 


16 


A MERCHANT  PRINCE 


inadequate  lower  jaws  and  lack  of  hair)  made  him  similarly 
uneasy. 

Rotterdam,  I have  read  somewhere,  was  famous  at  the 
end  of  the  eighteenth  century  for  a miser,  the  richest  man 
in  the  city.  He  always  did  his  own  marketing,  and  once 
changed  his  butcher  because  he  weighed  the  paper  with 
the  meat.  He  bought  his  milk  in  farthings  worths,  half  of 
which  had  to  be  delivered  at  his  front  door  and  half  at  the 
back,  ‘^to  gain  the  little  advantage  of  extra  measure 
Different  travellers  note  different  things,  and  William 
Chambei’s,  the  publisher,  in  his  Tour  m Holland  in  1839, 
selected  for  special  notice  another  type  of  Rotterdam 
resident:  ^‘One  of  the  most  remarkable  men  of  this  [the 
merchant]  class  is  Mr.  Van  Hoboken  of  Rhoon  and  Pend- 
recht,  who  lives  on  one  of  the  havens.  This  individual 
began  life  as  a merchant’s  porter,  and  has  in  process  of 
time  attained  the  highest  rank  among  the  Dutch  mercan- 
tile aristocracy.  He  is  at  present  the  principal  owner  of 
twenty  large  ships  in  the  East  India  trade,  each,  I was 
informed,  worth  about  fourteen  thousand  pounds,  besides 
a large  landed  estate,  and  much  floating  wealth  of  differ- 
ent descriptions.  His  establishment  is  of  vast  extent,  and 
contains  departments  for  the  building  of  ships  and  manu- 
facture of  all  their  necessary  equipments.  This  gentleman, 
until  lately,  was  in  the  habit  of  giving  a splendid  fete  once 
a year  to  his  family  and  friends,  at  which  was  exhibited 
with  modest  pride  the  porter’s  truck  which  he  drew  at  the 
outset  of  his  career.  One  seldom  hears  of  British  merchants 
thus  keeping  alive  the  remembrance  of  early  meanness  of 
circumstances.” 

At  one  of  Rotterdam’s  stations  I saw  the  Queen-Mother, 
a smiling,  maternal  lady  in  a lavender  silk  dress,  carrying  a 
large  bouquet,  and  saying  pretty  things  to  a deputation 


HOOD’S  ROTTERDAM  POEM 


17 


drawn  up  on  the  platform.  Rotterdam  had  put  out  its 
best  bunting,  and  laid  six  inches  of  sand  on  its  roads,  to  do 
honour  to  this  kindly  royalty.  The  band  played  the  tender 
national  anthem,  which  is  always  so  unlike  what  one  ex- 
pects it  to  be,  as  her  train  steamed  away,  and  then  all  the 
grave  bearded  gentlemen  in  uniforms  and  frock  coats  who 
had  attended  her  drove  in  their  open  carriages  back  to  the 
town.  Not  even  the  presence  of  the  mounted  guard  made 
it  more  formal  than  a family  party.  Everybody  seemed  on 
the  best  of  friendly  terms  of  equality  with  everybody  else. 

Tom  Hood,  who  had  it  in  him  to  be  so  good  a poet,  but 
living  in  a country  where  art  and  literature  do  not  count, 
was  permitted  to  coarsen  his  delicate  genius  in  the  hunt 
for  bread,  wrote  one  of  his  comic  poems  on  Rotterdam. 
In  it  are  many  happy  touches  of  description : — 

Before  me  lie  dark  waters 
In  broad  canals  and  deep, 

Whereon  the  silver  moonbeams 
Sleep,  restless  in  their  sleep  ; 

A sort  of  vulgar  Venice 
Reminds  me  where  I am  ; 

Yes,  yes,  you  are  in  England, 

And  Fm  at  Rotterdam. 

I 

Tall  houses  with  quaint  gables. 

Where  frequent  windows  shine, 

And  quays  that  lead  to  bridges, 

And  trees  in  formal  line. 

And  masts  of  spicy  vessels 
From  western  Surinam, 

All  tell  me  you’re  in  England, 

But  I’m  in  Rotterdam. 

With  headquarters  at  Rotterdam  one  may  make  certain 
small  journeys  into  the  neighbourhood — to  Dordrecht  by 
river,  to  Delft  by  canal,  to  Gouda  by  canal ; or  one  may 
take  longer  voyages,  even  to  Cologne  if  one  wishes.  But  I 


18 


GOUDA 


do  not  recommend  it  as  a city  to  linger  in.  Better  than 
Rotterdam’s  large  hotels  are,  I think,  the  smaller,  humbler 
and  more  Dutch  inns  of  the  less  commercial  towns.  This 
indeed  is  the  case  all  over  Holland : the  plain  Dutch  inn 
of  the  neighbouring  small  town  is  pleasanter  than  the  large 
hotels  of  the  city  ; and,  as  I have  remarked  in  the  chapter 
on  Amsterdam,  the  distances  are  so  short,  and  the  trains 
so  numerous,  that  one  suffers  no  inconvenience  from  staying 
in  the  smaller  places. 

Gouda  (pronounced  Howda)  it  is  well  to  visit  from  Rotter- 
dam, for  it  has  not  enough  to  repay  a sojourn  in  its  midst. 
It  has  a Groote  Kerk  and  a pretty  isolated  white  stadhuis. 
But  Gouda’s  fame  rests  on  its  stained  glass — gigantic  re- 
presentations of  myth,  history  and  scripture,  chiefly  by 
the  brothers  Crabeth.  The  windows  are  interesting  rather 
than  beautiful.  They  lack  the  richness  and  mystery  which 
one  likes  to  find  in  old  stained  glass,  and  the  church  itself 
is  bare  and  cold  and  unfriendly.  Hemmed  in  by  all  this 
coloured  glass,  so  able  and  so  direct,  one  sighs  for  a 
momentary  glimpse  of  the  rose  window  at  Chartres,  or  even 
of  the  too  heavily  kaleidoscopic  patterns  of  Brussels  Cathe- 
dral. No  matter,  the  Gouda  windows  in  their  way  are 
very  fine,  and  in  the  sixth,  depicting  the  story  of  Judith 
and  Holofernes,  there  is  a very  fascinating  little  Dureresque 
tower  on  a rock  under  sie^e. 

o 

If  one  is  taking  Gouda  on  the  way  from  Rotterdam 
to  Amsterdam,  the  surrounding  country  should  not  be 
neglected  from  the  carriage  windows.  Holland  is  rarely 
so  luxuriant  as  here,  and  so  peacefully  beautiful. 


GOUDA 


CHAPTER  II 


THE  DUTCH  IN  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Hard  things  against  the  Dutch — Andrew  Marvell’s  satire — The  iniquity 
of  living  below  sea-level — Historic  sarcasms — “ Invent  a shovel  and 
be  a magistrate” — Heterogeneity — Foot  warmers — A champion  of 
the  Hollow  Land — The  Dutch  Drawn  to  the  Life — Dutch  suspicion 
— Sir  William  Temple’s  opinion — and  Sir  Thomas  Overbury’s — Dr. 
Johnson’s  project — Dutch  courtesy — Dutch  discourtesy — National 
manners — A few  phrases — The  origin  of  “ Dutch  News  ” — A vindica- 
tion of  Dutch  courage. 

TO  say  hard  things  of  the  Dutch  was  once  a recognised 
- literary  pastime.  At  the  time  of  our  war  with 
Holland  no  poet  of  any  pretensions  refi’ained  from  writing 
at  least  one  anti-Batavian  satire,  the  classical  example  of 
which  is  Andrew  Marvell’s  Character  of  Holland  ’’  (follow- 
ing Samuel  Butler’s),  a pasquinade  that  contains  enough 
wit  and  fancy  and  contempt  to  stock  a score  of  the  nation’s 
ordinary  assailants.  It  begins  perfectly  : — 

Holland,  that  scarce  deserves  the  name  of  land, 

As  but  th’  off-scouring  of  the  British  sand, 

And  so  much  earth  as  was  contributed 
By  English  pilots  when  they  heav’d  the  lead. 

Or  what  by  the  ocean’s  slow  alluvion  fell 
Of  shipwrackt  cockle  and  the  muscle-shell : 

This  indigested  vomit  of  the  sea 
Fell  to  the  Dutch  by  just  propriety. 

Glad  then,  as  miners  who  have  found  the  ore 
They,  with  mad  labour,  fish’d  the  land  to  shoar 
And  div’d  as  desperately  for  each  piece 

(19) 


NAPOLEON  AND  ALVA 


Of  earth,  as  ift  had  been  of  ambergreece ; 

Collecting  anxiously  small  loads  of  clay, 

Less  than  what  building  swallows  bear  away ; 

Or  than  those  pills  which  sordid  beetles  roul, 

Transfusing  into  them  their  dunghil  soul. 

How  did  they  rivet,  with  gigantick  piles. 

Thorough  the  center  their  new-catched  miles ; 

And  to  the  stake  a struggling  country  bound, 

Where  barking  waves  still  bait  the  forced  ground  ; 

Building  their  wat’ry  Babel  far  more  high 
To  reach  the  sea,  than  those  to  scale  the  sky ! 

Yet  still  his  claim  the  injur’d  ocean  laid, 

And  oft  at  leap-frog  ore  their  steeples  plaid  : 

As  if  on  purpose  it  on  land  had  come 
To  show  them  what’s  their  mare  liberum. 

A daily  deluge  over  them  does  boyl ; 

The  earth  and  water  play  at  level-coyl. 

The  fish  oft  times  the  burger  dispossest. 

And  sat,  not  as  a meat,  but  as  a guest, 

And  oft  the  Tritons^and  the  sea-nymphs  saw 
Whole  sholes  of  Dutch  serv’d  up  for  Cabillau ; 

Or,  as  they  over  the  new  level  rang’d 
For  pickled  herring,  pickled  heeren  chang’d. 

Nature,  it  seem’d,  asham’d  of  her  mistake. 

Would  throw  their  land  away  at  duck  and  drake. 

The  poor  Dutch  were  never  forgiven  for  living  below  the 
sea-level  and  gaining  their  security  by  magnificent  feats 
of  engineering  and  persistence.  Why  the  notion  of  a 
reclaimed  land  should  have  seemed  so  comic  I cannot 
understand,  but  Marvell  certainly  justified  the  joke. 

Later,  Napoleon,  who  liked  to  sum  up  a nation  in  a 
phrase,  accused  Holland  of  being  nothing  but  a deposit  of 
German  mud,  thrown  there  by  the  Rhine : while  the  Duke 
of  Alva  remarked  genially  that  the  Dutch  were  of  all 
peoples  those  that  lived  nighest  to  hell ; but  Marvell’s 
sarcasms  are  the  best.  Indeed  I doubt  if  the  literature 
of  droll  exaggeration  has  anything  to  compare  with  The 
Character  of  Holland 


KING  OF  THE  DUTCH 


21 


The  satirist,  now  thoroughly  wai'med  to  his  congenial 
task,  continues : — 

Therefore  Necessity,  that  first  made  kings, 

Something  like  government  among  them  brings ; 

For,  as  with  pygmees,  who  best  kills  the  crane. 

Among  the  hungry,  he  that  treasures  grain, 

Among  the  blind,  the  one-ey’d  blinkard  reigns, 

So  rules  among  the  drowned  he  that  draines : 

Not  who  first  sees  the  rising  sun,  commands. 

But  who  could  first  discern  the  rising  lands ; 

Who  best  could  know  to  pump  an  earth  so  leak, 

Him  they  their  Lord,  and  Country’s  Father,  speak ; 

To  make  a bank,  was  a great  plot  of  State, 

Invent  a shov’l,  and  be  a magistrate. 

So  much  for  the  conquest  of  Neptune,  which  in  another 
nation  were  a laudable  enough  enterprise.  Marvell  then 
passes  on  to  the  national  religion  and  the  heterogeneity  of 
Amsterdam  : — 

’Tis  probable  Religion,  after  this, 

Came  next  in  order,  which  they  could  not  miss ; 

How  could  the  Dutch  but  be  converted,  when 
Th’  Apostles  were  so  many  fishermen  ? 

Besides,  the  waters  of  themselves  did  rise, 

And,  as  their  land,  so  them  did  re-baptize. 

Though  Herring  for  their  God  few  voices  mist. 

And  Poor-John  to  have  been  th’  Evangelist, 

Faith,  that  could  never  twins  conceive  before. 

Never  so  fertile,  spawn’d  upon  this  shore 

More  pregnant  than  their  Marg’ret,  that  laid  down 

For  Hans-in-Kelder  of  a whole  Hans-Town. 

Sure  when  Religion  did  itself  imbark. 

And  from  the  East  would  Westward  steer  its  ark. 

It  struck,  and  splitting  on  this  unknown  ground. 

Each  one  thence  pillag’d  the  first  piece  he  found : 

Hence  Amsterdam,  Turk-Christian-Pagan-Jew, 

Staple  of  sects,  and  mint  of  schisme  grew ; 

That  bank  of  conscience,  where  not  one  so  strange 
Opinion  but  finds  credit,  and  exchange. 

In  vain  fpr  C^tholigks  ourselves  we  bear ; 


22 


RELIGION  AND  FOOTSTOOLS 


The  universal  Church  is  only  there. 

Nor  can  civility  there  want  for  tillage, 

-Where  wisely  for  their  Court,  they  chose  a village : 

How  fit  a title  clothes  their  governours, 

Themselves  the  hogs,  as  all  their  subject  bores  ! 

Let  it  suffice  to  give  their  country  fame. 

That  it  had  one  Civilis  call’d  by  name. 

Some  fifteen  hundred  and  more  years  ago. 

But  surely  never  any  that  was  so. 

There  is  something  rather  splendid  in  the  attitude  of  a 
man  who  can  take  a whole  nation  as  his  butt  and  bend 
every  circumstance  to  his  purpose  of  ridicule  and  attack. 
Our  satirists  to-day  are  contented  to  pillory  individuals  or 
possibly  a sect  or  clique.  Marvells  enjoyment  in  his  own 
exuberance  and  ingenuity  is  so  apparent  and  infectious 
that  it  matters  nothing  to  us  whether  he  was  fair  or 
unfair. 

The  end  is  inconclusive,  being  a happy  recollection  that 
he  had  omitted  any  reference  to  stoofjes^  the  footstools 
filled  with  burning  peat  which  are  used  to  keep  the  feet 
warm  in  church.  Such  a custom  was  of  course  not  less 
reprehensible  than  the  building  of  dykes  to  keep  out  the 
sea.  Hence  these  eight  lines,  which,  however,  would  have 
come  better  earlier  in  the  poem  : — 

See  but  their  mermaids,  with  their  tails  of  fish. 

Reeking  at  church  over  the  chafing-dish  1 
A vestal  turf,  enshrin’d  in  earthen  ware, 

Fumes  through  the  loopholes  of  a wooden  square  ; 

Each  to  the  temple  with  these  altars  tend, 

But  still  does  place  it  at  her  western  end ; 

While  the  fat  steam  of  female  sacrifice 

Fills  the  priest’s  nostrils,  and  puts  out  his  eyes. 

Not  all  the  poets,  however,  abused  the  Dutch.  John 
Hagthorpe,  in  his  England's  Exchequer  in  1625  (written 
before  the  war  : hence,  perhaps,  his  kindness)  thus  addressed 
the  ‘‘  hollow  Iwd  ’’ ; — ^ 


THE  SICK  WOMAN 

JAN  STEEN 

From  the  picture  in  the  Ryks  Mnsetim 


“ THE  DUTCH  DRAWN  TO  THE  LIFE  ” 23 

Fair  Holland,  had’st  thou  England’s  chalky  rocks, 

To  gird  thy  watery  waist;  her  healthful  mounts, 

With  tender  grass  to  feed  thy  nibbling  flocks  : 

Her  pleasant  groves,  and  crystalline  clear  founts, 

Most  happy  should’ st  thou  be  by  just  accounts. 

That  in  thine  age  so  fresh  a youth  do’st  feel 
Though  flesh  of  oak,  and  ribs  of  brass  and  steel. 

But  what  hath  prudent  mother  Nature  held 

From  thee — that  she  might  equal  shares  impart 
Unto  her  other  sons — that’s  not  compell’d 
To  be  the  guerdons  of  thy  wit  and  art  ? 

And  industry,  that  brings  from  every  part 
Of  every  thing  the  fairest  and  the  best. 

Like  the  Arabian  bird  to  build  thy  nest  ? 

Like  the  Arabian  bird  thy  nest  to  build, 

With  nimble  wings  thou  flyest  for  Indian  sweets. 

And  incense  which  the  Sabaan  forests  yield. 

And  in  thy  nest  the  goods  of  each  pole  meets, — 

Which  thy  foes  hope,  shall  serve  thy  funeral  rites — 

But  thou  more  wise,  secur’d  by  thy  deep  skill. 

Dost  build  on  waves,  from  fires  more  safe  than  hill. 

To  return  to  the  severer  critics — in  1664  was  published 
a little  book  called  The  Dutch  Drawn  to  the  Life^  a hostile 
work  not  improbably  written  with  the  intention  of  exciting 
English  animosity  to  the  point  of  war.  A great  deal  was 
made  of  the  success  of  the  Dutch  fisheries  and  the  mis- 
management of  our  own.  The  nation  was  criticised  in  all 
its  aspects — well  nigh  three  millions  of  men,  well-propor- 
tioned, great  lovers  of  our  English  beer  The  following 
passage  on  the  drinking  capacity  of  the  Dutch  would  have 
to  be  modified  to-day  : — 

By  their  Excise,  which  riseth  with  their  charge,  the  more  money  they 
pay,  the  more  they  receive  again,  in  that  insensible  but  profitable  way : 
what  is  exhaled  up  in  clouds,  falls  back  again  in  showers:  what  the 
souldier  receives  in  pay,  he  payes  in  Drink : their  very  enemies,  though 
they  hate  the  State,  yet  love  their  liquor,  and  pay  excise : the  most  idle, 
slothful,  and  most  improvident,  that  selleth  his  blood  for  drink,  and  his 
flesh  for  bread,  serves  at  his  own  charge,  for  every  pay  day  he  payeth  his 
sutler,  and  he  the  common  purse. 


24  EVENING  STARRE  AND  MORNING  STARRE 


Here  are  other  strokes  assisting  to  the  protraiture  “ to 
the  life  ” of  this  people : Their  habitations  are  kept 

handsomer  than  their  bodies,  and  their  bodies  than  their 
soules”. — “The  Dutch  man’s  building  is  not  large,  but 
neat ; handsome  on  the  outside,  on  the  inside  hung  with 
pictures  and  tapestry.  He  that  hath  not  bread  to  eat 
hath  a picture.” — “They  are  seldom  deceived,  for  they 
will  trust  nobody.  They  may  always  deceive,  for  you  must 
trust  them,  as  for  instance,  if  you  travel,  to  ask  a bill  of 
Particulars  is  to  purre  in  a wasp’s  nest,  you  must  pay  what 
they  ask  as  sure  as  if  it  were  the  assessment  of  a Subsidy.” 

But  the  wittiest  and  shrewdest  of  the  prose  critics  of 
Holland  was  Owen  Feltham,  from  whom  I quote  later. 
His  little  book  on  the  Low  Countries  is  as  packed  with 
pointed  phrase  as  a satire  by  Pope : the  first  half  of  it 
whimsically  destructive,  the  second  half  eulogistic.  It  is 
he  who  charges  the  Dutch  convivial  spirits  with  drinking 
down  the  Evening  Starre  and  drinking  up  the  Morning 
Starre. 

The  old  literature  tells  us  also  that  the  Dutch  were 
not  always  clean.  Indeed,  their  own  painters  prove  this  : 
Ostade  pre-eminently.  There  are  many  allusions  in  Eliza- 
bethan and  early  Stuart  literature  to  their  dirt  and  rags. 
In  Earle’s  Microcosmography ^ for  example,  a younger 
brother’s  last  refuge  is  said  to  be  the  Low  Countries, 
“ where  rags  and  linen  are  no  scandal  But  better 
testimony  comes  perhaps  from  The  English  Schole-Master^ 
a seventeenth-century  Dutch-English  manual,  from  which 
I quote  at  some  length  later  in  this  book.  Here  is  a 
specimen  scrap  of  dialogue : — 

S.  May  it  please  you  to  give  me  leave  to  go  out  ? 

M.  Whither  ? 

S.  Home. 


TEMPLE  AND  OVERBURY 


25 


M.  How  is  it  that  you  goe  so  often  home  ? 

S.  My  mother  commanded  that  I and  my  brother  should  come  to  her 
this  day. 

M.  For  what  cause  ? 

S.  That  our  mayd  may  beat  out  our  clothes. 

M.  What  is  that  to  say  ? Are  you  louzie  ? 

S.  Yea,  very  louzie. 

Sir  William  Temple,  the  patron  of  Swift,  the  husband 
of  Dorothy  Osborne,  and  our  ambassador  at  The  Hague 
— where  he  talked  horticulture,  cured  his  gout  by  the 
remedy  known  as  Moxa,  and  collected  materials  for  the 
leisurely  essays  and  memoirs  that  were  to  be  written  at 
Moor  Park — knew  the  Dutch  well  and  wrote  of  them  with 
much  particularity.  In  his  Observations  upon  the  United 
Provinces  he  says  this : Holland  is  a country,  where 

the  earth  is  better  than  the  air,  and  profit  more  in  request 
than  honour ; where  there  is  more  sense  than  wit ; more 
good  nature  than  good  humour,  and  more  wealth  than 
pleasure : where  a man  would  chuse  rather  to  travel  than 
to  live ; shall  find  more  things  to  observe  than  desire ; 
and  more  persons  to  esteem  than  to  love.  But  the  same 
qualities  and  dispositions  do  not  value  a private  man  and 
a state,  nor  make  a conversation  agreeable,  and  a govern- 
ment great : nor  is  it  unlikely,  that  some  very  great  King 
might  make  but  a very  ordinary  private  gentleman,  and 
some  very  extraordinary  gentlefnan  might  be  capable  of 
making  but  a very  mean  Prince.” 

Among  other  travellers  who  have  summed  up  the  Dutch 
in  a few  phrases  is  Sir  Thomas  Overbury,  the  author  of 
some  witty  characters,  including  that  very  charming  one 
of  a Happy  Milk  Maid.  In  1609  he  thus  generalised  upon 
the  Netherlanders : Concerning  the  people : they  are 

neither  much  devout,  nor  much  wicked  ; given  all  to  drink, 
and  eminently  to  no  other  vice ; hard  in  bargaining,  but 


26  OTHER  WANDERERS  IN  HOLLAND 


just;  surly  and  respectless,  as  in  all  democracies;  thirsty, 
industi'ious,  and  cleanly ; disheartened  upon  the  least  ill- 
success,  and  insolent  upon  good ; inventive  in  manufactures, 
and  cunning  in  traffick  : and  generally,  for  matter  of  action, 
that  natural  slowness  of  theirs,  suits  better  (by  reason  of 
the  advisedness  and  perseverance  it  brings  with  it)  than 
the  rashness  and  changeableness  of  the  French  and  Floren- 
tine wits ; and  the  equality  of  spirits,  which  is  among 
them  and  Switzers,  rendei's  them  so  fit  for  a democracy : 
which  kind  of  government,  nations  of  more  stable  wits, 
being  once  come  to  a consistent  greatness,  have  seldom 
long  endured.’^ 

Many  Englishmen  have  travelled  in  Holland  and  have 
set  down  the  record  of  their  experiences,  from  Thomas 
Coryate  downwards.  But  the  country  has  not  been  inspir- 
ing, and  Dutch  travels  are  poor  reading.  Had  Dr.  Johnson 
lived  to  accompany  Boswell  on  a projected  journey  we 
should  be  the  richer,  but  I doubt  if  any  very  interesting 
narrative  would  have  resulted.  One  of  Johnson’s  con- 
temporaries, Samuel  Ireland,  the  engraver,  and  the  father 
of  the  fraudulent  author  of  Vortigern^  wrote  A Picturesque 
Tour  through  Holland^  Brabant^  and  part  of  France^  in 
1789,  while  a few  years  later  one  of  Charles  Lamb’s  early 
‘‘drunken  companions,”  Fell,  wrote  A Tour  through  the 
Batavian  Republic^  1801 ; and  both  of  these  books  yield  a 
few  experiences  not  without  interest.  Fell’s  is  the  duller. 
I quote  from  them  now  and  again  throughout  this  volume, 
but  I might  mention  here  a few  of  their  more  general 
observations. 

Fell,  for  example,  was  embaiTassed  by  the  very  formal 
politeness  of  the  nation.  “ The  custom  of  bowing  in 
Holland,”  he  writes,  “ is  extremely  troublesome.  It  is  not 
sufficient,  as  in  England,  that  a person  slightly  moves  his 


THE  ANXIOUS  FAMILY 
JOSEF  ISRAELS 


DUTCH  MANNERS  TO  STRANGERS  27 


hat,  but  he  must  take  it  off  his  head,  and  continue  un- 
covered till  the  man  is  past  him  to  whom  he  pays  the 
compliment.  The  ceremony  of  bowing  is  more  strictly 
observed  at  Leyden  and  Haerlem,  than  at  Rotterdam  or 
The  Hague.  In  either  of  the  former  cities,  a stranger  of 
decent  appearance  can  scarcely  walk  in  the  streets  without 
being  obliged  every  minute  to  pull  off  his  hat,  to  answer 
some  civility  of  the  same  kind  which  he  receives ; and  these 
compliments  are  paid  him  not  only  by  opulent  people,  but 
by  mechanics  and  labourers,  who  bow  with  all  the  gi^avity 
and  politeness  of  theii*  superiors.” 

Such  civilities  to  strangers  have  become  obsolete.  So  far 
from  courtesy  being  the  rule  of  the  street,  it  is  now,  as  I 
have  hinted  in  the  next  chapter,  impossible  for  an  English- 
woman whose  clothes  chance  to  differ  in  any  particular 
from  those  of  the  Dutch  to  escape  embarrassing  notice. 
Staring  is  earned  to  a point  where  it  becomes  almost  a 
blow,  and  laughter  and  humorous  sallies  resound.  I am 
told  that  the  Boer  war  to  a large  extent  broke  down  old 
habits  of  politeness  to  the  English  stranger. 

When  one  thinks  of  it,  the  Dutch  habit  of  staring  at 
the  visitor  until  he  almost  wishes  the  sea  would  roll  in  and 
submerge  him,  argues  a want  of  confidence  in  their  country, 
tantamount  to  a confession  of  failure.  Had  they  a little 
more  trust  in  the  attractive  qualities  of  their  land,  a little 
more  imagination  to  realise  that  in  other  eyes  its  flatness 
and  quaintness  might  be  even  alluring,  they  would  accept 
and  acknowledge  the  compliment  by  doing  as  little  as  pos- 
sible to  make  their  country’s  admirers  uncomfortable. 

Dutch  courage,”  to  which  I refer  below,  is  not  our 
only  use  of  Dutch  as  a contemptuous  adjective.  We  say 
‘‘  Dutch  Gold  ” for  pinchbeck,  Dutch  Myrtle  ” for  a weed. 

I 3hall  talk  to  you  like  a Dutch  uncle  ” is  another  saying, 


28 


‘‘DUTCH  NEWS” 


not  in  this  case  contemptuous  but  rather  complimentary — 
signifying  “ FlI  dress  you  down  to  some  purpose  ”,  One 
piece  of  slang  we  share  with  Holland : the  reference  to  the 
pawnbroker  as  an  uncle.  In  Holland  the  kindly  friend 
at  the  three  brass  balls  (which  it  may  not  be  generally 
known  are  the  ancient  arms  of  Lombardy,  the  Lombards 
being  the  first  money  lenders,)  is  called  Oom  Jan  or  Uncle 
John. 

There  is  still  another  phrase,  “ Dutch  news,”  which  might 
be  explained.  The  term  is  given  by  printers  to  very 
difficult  copy — Dean  Stanley’s  manuscript,  for  example,  was 
probably  known  as  Dutch  news,  so  terrible  was  his  hand, 
— and  also  to  “ pie  The  origin  is  to  be  found  in  the 
following  paragraph  from  Notes  and  Queries,  (The  Sir 
Richard  Phillips  concerned  was  the  vegetarian  publisher  so 
finely  touched  off  by  Borrow  in  Lavengro,) 

In  his  youth  Sir  Richard  Phillips  edited  and  published  a paper  at 
Leicester,  called  the  Herald,  One  day  an  article  appeared  in  it  headed 
‘ Dutch  Mail,’  and  added  to  it  was  an  announcement  that  it  had  arrived 
too  late  for  translation,  and  so  had  been  cut  up  and  printed  in  the  original. 
This  wondrous  article  drove  half  of  England  crazy,  and  for  years  the  best 
Dutch  scholars  squabbled  and  pored  over  it  without  being  able  to  arrive 
at  any  idea  of  what  it  meant.  This  famous  ‘ Dutch  Mail  ’ was,  in  reality, 
merely  a column  of  pie.  The  story  Sir  Richard  tells  of  this  particular  pie 
he  had  a whole  hand  in  is  this : — 

“ One  evening,  before  one  of  our  publications,  my  men  and  a boy 
overturned  two  or  three  columns  of  the  paper  in  type.  We  had  to  get 
ready  in  some  way  for  the  coaches,  which,  at  four  o’clock  in  the  morning, 
required  four  or  five  hundred  papers.  After  every  exertion  we  were  short 
nearly  a column  ; but  there  stood  on  the  galleys  a tempting  column  of  pie. 
It  suddenly  struck  me  that  this  might  be  thought  Dutch.  I made  up  the 
column,  overcame  the  scruples  of  the  foreman,  and  so  away  the  country 
edition  went  with  its  philological  puzzle,  to  worry  the  honest  agricultural 
reader’s  head.  There  was  plenty  of  time  to  set  up  a column  of  plain 
English  for  the  local  edition.”  Sir  Richard  tells  of  one  man  whom  he 
met  in  Nottingham  who  for  thirty- four  years  preserved  a copy  of  the 
Leicester  Herald^  hoping  that  some  day  the  matter  would  he  explained, 


DUTCH  COURAGE  ” 


29 


I doubt  if  any  one  nation  is  braver  than  any  other ; and 
the  fact  that  from  Holland  we  get  the  contemptuous  term 
Dutch  courage,”  meaning  the  courage  which  is  dependent 
upon  spirits  (originally  as  supplied  to  malefactors  about 
to  mount  the  scaffold),  is  no  indication  that  the  Dutch 
lack  bravely.  To  one  who  inquired  as  to  the  derivation 
of  the  phrase  a poet  unknown  to  me  thus  replied,  some- 
when  in  the  reign  of  William  IV.  The  retort,  I think, 
was  sound  : — 

Do  you  ask  what  is  Dutch  courage  ? 

Ask  the  Thames,  and  ask  the  fleet,  / 

That,  in  London’s  fire  and  plague  years, 

With  De  Ruyter  yards  could  mete  : 

Ask  Prince  Robert  and  d’Estrees, 

Ask  your  Solebay  and  the  Boyne, 

Ask  the  Duke,  whose  iron  valour 
With  our  chivalry  did  join, 

Ask  your  Wellington,  oh  ask  him, 

Of  our  Prince  of  Orange  bold, 

And  a tale  of  nobler  spirit 
Will  to  wond’ring  ears  be  told ; 

And  if  ever  foul  invaders 
Threaten  your  King  William’s  throne, 

If  dark  Papacy  be  running. 

Or  if  Chartists  want  your  own, 

Or  whatever  may  betide  you. 

That  needs  rid  of  foreign  will. 

Only  ask  of  your  Dutch  neighbours. 

And  you’ll  see  Dutch  courage  still. 


CHAPTER  III 


DORDRECHT  AND  UTRECHT 


By  water  to  Dordrecht — Her  four  rivers — The  milkmaid  and  the  coat  of 
arms — The  Staple  of  Dort — Overhanging  houses — Albert  Cuyp — 
Nicolas  Maes — Ferdinand  Bol — Ary  Schelfer — G.  H.  Breitner — A 
Dort  carver — The  Synod  of  Dort — “ The  exquisite  rancour  of  theo- 
logians”— La  Tulipe  Noire — Bernard  Mandeville — The  exclusive 
Englishman — The  Castle  of  Loevenstein — The  escape  of  Grotius — 
Gorcum’s  taste  outraged — By  rail  to  Utrecht — A free  church — The 
great  storm  of  1674 — Utrecht  Cathedral — Jan  van  Scorel — Paul 
Moreelse — A too  hospitable  museum. 


ORDRECHT  must  be  approached  by  water,  because 


then  one  sees  her  as  she  was  seen  so  often,  and 
painted  so  often,  by  her  great  son  Albert  Cuyp,  and  by 
countless  artists  since. 

I steamed  from  Rotterdam  to  Dordrecht  on  a grey 
windy  morning,  on  a passenger  boat  bound  ultimately  for 
Nymwegen.  We  carried  a very  mixed  cargo.  In  a cage 
at  the  bows  was  a Friesland  mare,  while  the  whole  of  the 
deck  at  the  stern  was  piled  high  with  motor  spirit.  Be- 
tween came  myriad  barrels  of  beer  and  other  merchandise. 

The  course  to  Dordrecht  (which  it  is  simpler  to  call  Dort) 
is  up  the  Maas  for  some  miles ; past  shipbuilding  yards, 
at  Sylverdyk  (where  is  a great  heronry)  and  Kinderdyk ; 
past  fishermen  dropping  their  nets  for  salmon,  which  they 
may  take  only  on  certain  days,  to  give  their  German 
brethren,  higher  up  the  river,  a chance ; past  meadows 
golden  with  marsh  marigolds;  past  every  kind  of  craft, 


(30) 


VIEW  OF  DORT 
ALBERT  CUYP 

From  the  picture  i7i  the  Ryks  Museum 


DORDRECHT^S  FOUR  RIVERS 


31 


most  attractive  of  all  being  the  tjalcks  with  their  brown  or 
black  sails  and  green-lined  hulls,  not  unlike  those  from 
Rochester  which  swim  so  steadily  in  the  reaches  of  the 
Thames  about  Greenwich.  The  journey  takes  an  hour 
and  a half,  the  last  half-hour  being  spent  in  a canal  lead- 
ing south  from  the  Maas  and  ultimately  joining  Dort’s 
confluence  of  waters.  % 

It  is  these  rivers  that  give  Dort  her  peculiar  charm. 
There  is  a little  cafe  on  the  quay  facing  the  sunset  where 
one  may  sit  and  lose  oneself  in  the  eternally  interesting 
movement  of  the  shipping.  I found  the  town  distracting 
under  the  incessant  clanging  of  the  tram  bell  (yet  grass 
grows  among  the  paving-stones  between  the  rails)  ; but 
there  is  no  distraction  opposite  the  sunset.  On  the  even- 
ing that  I am  remembering  the  sun  left  a sky  of  fiery 
orange  barred  by  clouds  of  essential  blackness. 

Dort’s  rivers  are  the  Maas  and  the  Waal,  the  Linge  and 
the  Merwede ; and  when  in  1549  Philip  of  Spain  visited 
the  city,  she  flourished  this  motto  before  him  : — 

Me  Mosa,  me  Vahalis,  me  Linga  Morvaque  cingunt 

Biternam  Batavae  virginis  ecce  fidens. 

The  fidelity,  at  least  to  Philip  and  Spain,  disappeared ; 
but  the  four  rivers  still  as  of  old  surround  Dort  with  a 
cincture. 

I must  give,  in  the  words  of  the  old  writer  who  tells  it, 
the  pretty  legend  which  explains  the  origin  of  the  Dort 
coat  of  arms : There  is  an  admirable  history  concerning 

that  beautiful  and  maiden  city  of  Holland  called  Dort. 
The  Spaniards  had  intended  an  onslaught  against  it,  and 
so  they  had  laid  thousands  of  old  soldiers  in  ambush.  Not 
far  from  it  there  did  live  a rich  farmer  who  did  keep  many 
cows  in  his  ground,  to  furnish  Dort  with  butter  and  milk. 
The  milkmaid  coming  to  milk  saw  all  under  the  hedges 


32 


THE  HISTORIC  MILKMAID 


soldiers  lying ; seemed  to  take  no  notice,  but  went  singing 
to  her  cows ; and  having  milked,  went  as  merrily  away. 
Coming  to  her  master’s  house,  she  told  what  she  had  seen. 
The  master  wondering  at  it,  took  the  maid  with  him  and 
presently  came  to  Dort,  told  it  to  the  Burgomaster,  who 
sent  a spy  immediately,  found  it  true,  and  prepared  for 
their  safety ; sent  to  the  States,  who  presently  sent  soldiers 
into  the  city,  and  gave  order  that  the  river  should  be  let 
in  at  such  a sluice,  to  lay  the  country  under  water^  It 
was  done,  and  many  Spaniards  were  drowned  and  utterly 
disappointed  of  their  design,  and  the  town  saved.  The 
States,  in  the  memory  of  the  merry  milkmaid’s  good  service 
to  the  country,  ordered  the  farmer  a large  revenue  for  ever, 
to  recompense  his  loss  of  house,  land,  and  cattle  ; caused 
the  coin  of  the  city  to  have  the  milkmaid  under  her  cow 
to  be  engraven,  which  is  to  be  seen  upon  the  Dort  dollar, 
stivers,  and  doights  to  this  day;  and  so  she  is  set  upon 
the  water  gate  of  Dort;  and  she  had,  during  h r life,  and 
her’s  for  ever,  an  allowance  of  fifty  pounds  per  annum.  A 
noble  requital  for  a virtuous  action.” 

Dort’s  great  day  of  prosperity  is  over ; but  once  she 
was  the  richest  town  in  Holland — a result  due  to  the 
privilege  of  the  Staple.  In  other  words,  she  obtained  the 
right  to  act  as  intermediary  between  the  rest  of  Holland 
and  the  outer  world  in  connection  with  all  the  wine,  corn, 
timber  and  whatever  else  might  be  imported  by  way  of 
the  Rhine.  At  Dort  the  cargoes  were  unloaded.  For 
some  centuries  she  enjoyed  this  privilege,  and  then  in  1618 
Rotterdam  began  to  resent  it  so  acutely  as  to  take  to 
arms,  and  the  financial  prosperity  of  the  town,  which 
would  be  tenable  only  by  the  maintenance  of  a fleet, 
steadily  crumbled.  To-day  she  is  contented  enough,  but 
the  cellars  of  Wyn  Straat,  once  stored  with  the  juices 


A HINT  OF  VENICE 


33 


of  Rhenish  vineyards,  are  empty.  The  Staple  is  no 
more. 

Dort  is  perhaps  the  most  painted  of  all  Dutch  towns, 
and  with  reason ; for  certainly  no  other  town  sits  with 
more  calm  dignity  among  the  waters,  nor  has  any  other 
town  so  quaintly  medieval  a canal  as  that  which  extends 
from  end  to  end,  far  below  the  level  of  the  streets,  crossed 
by  a series  of  little  bridges.  Seen  from  these  bridges  it  is 
the  nearest  thing  to  Venice  in  all  Holland — nearer  than 
anything  in  Amsterdam.  One  may  see  it  not  only  from 
the  bridges,  but  also  from  little  flights  of  steps  off  the  main 
street,  and  everywhere  it  is  beautiful : the  walls  rising 
from  its  surface  reflected  in  its  depths,  green  paint  splashed 
about  with  perfect  effect,  bright  window  boxes,  here  and 
there  a woman  washing  clothes,  odd  gables  above  and 
bridges  in  the  distance. 

Dordrecht’s  converging  facades,  which  incline  towards 
each  other  like  deaf  people,  are,  I am  told,  the  result  not 
of  age  and  sinking  foundations,  but  of  design.  When 
they  were  built,  very  many  years  ago,  the  city  had  a law 
directing  that  its  roofs  should  so  far  project  beyond  the 
perpendicular  as  to  shed  their  water  into  the  gutter,  thus 
enabling  the  passers-by  on  the  pavement  to  walk  unharmed. 
I cannot  give  chapter  or  verse  for  this  comfortable  theory ; 
which  of  course  preceded  the  ingenious  Jonas  Hanwaj’s 
invention  of  the  umbrella.  In  a small  ancTvery  imperfect 
degree"  the  enactment  anticipates  the  covered  city  of  Mr. 
H.  G.  Wells’s  vision.  A Dutch  friend  to  whom  I put 
the  point  tells  me  that  more  probably  the  preservation  of 
bricks  and  mural  carvings  was  intended,  the  dryness  of 
the  wayfarer  being  quite  secondary  or  unforeseen. 

Dort’s  greatest  artist  was  Albert  Cuyp,  born  in  1605. 
His  body  lies  in  the  church  of  the  Augustines  in  the  same 

3 


34 


CUYP  AND  MAES 


city,  where  he  died  in  1691 — true  to  the  Dutch  painters’ 
quiet  gift  of  living  and  dying  in  their  birthplaces.  Cuyp 
has  been  called  the  Dutch  Claude,  but  it  is  not  a good 
description.  He  was  more  human,  more  simple,  than 
Claude.  The  symbol  for  him  is  a scene  of  cows ; but  he 
had  great  versatility,  and  painted  horses  to  perfection. 
I have  also  seen  good  portraits  from  his  busy  brush. 
Faithful  to  his  native  town,  he  painted  many  pictures  of 
Dort.  We  have  two  in  the  National  Gallery.  I have  re- 
produced opposite  page  30  his  beautiful  quiet  view  of  the 
town  in  the  Ryks  Museum.  Dort  has  changed  but  little 
since  then  : the  schooner  would  now  be  a steamer — that  is 
almost  all.  The  reproduction  can  give  no  adequate  sug- 
gestion of  Cuyp’s  gift  of  diffusing  golden  light,  his  most 
precious  possession. 

Another  Dort  painter,  below  Albert  Cuyp  in  fame,  but 
often  above  him,  I think,  in  interest  and  power,  is  Nicolas 
Maes,  born  in  1632 — a great  year  in  Dutch  art,  for  it  saw 
the  birth  also  of  Vermeer  of  Delft  and  Peter  de  Hooch. 
Maes,  who  studied  in  Rembrandt’s  studio,  was  perhaps 
the  greatest  of  all  that  master’s  pupils.  England,  as  has 
been  so  often  the  case,  appreciated  Maes  more  wisely  than 
Holland,  with  the  result  that  some  of  his  best  pictures 
are  here. 

But  one  must  go  to  the  Ryks  Museum  in  Amsterdam  to 
see  his  finest  work  of  all — ‘‘The  Endless  Prayer,’’  No.  1501, 
reproduced  on  the  opposite  page.  We  have  at  the  National 
Gallery  or  the  Wallace  Collection  no  Maes  equal  to  this. 
His  “ Card  players,”  however,  at  the  National  Gallery,  a 
free  bold  canvas,  more  in  the  manner  of  Velasquez  than  of 
his  immediate  master,  is  in  its  way  almost  as  interesting. 

To  “ The  Endless  Prayer  ” one  feels  that  Maes’s  master, 
Rembrandt,  could  have  added  nothing.  It  is  even  conceiv- 


THE  NEVER-ENDING  PRAYER 
NICOLAS  MAES 

From  the  picture  iti  the  Ryks  Museum 


THE  SACCHARINE  SCHEFFER 


35 


able  that  he  might  have  injured  it  by  some  touch  of  asperity. 
From  this  picture  all  Newlyn  seems  to  have  sprung. 

According  to  Pilkington,  Maes  gave  up  his  better  and 
more  Rembrandtesque  manner  on  account  of  the  objection 
of  his  sitters  to  be  thus  painted.  Such  are  sitters  ! 

Dordrecht  claims  also  Ferdinand  Bol,  the  pupil  and 
friend  of  Rembrandt,  and  the  painter  of  the  Four  Regents 
of  the  Leprosy  Hospital  in  the  Amsterdam  stadhuis.  He 
was  born  in  1611.  For  a while  his  pictures  were  considered 
by  connoisseurs  to  be  finer  than  those  of  his  master.  We 
are  wiser  to-day;  yet  Bol  had  a fine  free  way  that  is 
occasionally  superb,  often  united,  as  in  the  portrait  of  Dirck 
van  der  Waeijen  at  Rotterdam,  to  a delicate  charm  for 
which  Rembrandt  cared  little.  His  portrait  of  an  as- 
tronomer in  our  National  Gallery  is  a great  work,  and  at 
the  Ryks  Museum  at  Amsterdam  his  “ Roelof  Meulenaer,’’ 
No.  543,  should  not  be  missed.  BoFs  favourite  sitter  seems 
to  have  been  Admiral  de  Ruyter — if  one  may  judge  by  the 
number  of  his  portraits  of  that  sea  ravener  which  Holland 
possesses. 

By  a perversity  of  judgment  Dort  seems  to  be  more 
proud  of  Ary  Scheffer  than  of  any  of  her  really  great  sons. 
It  is  Ary  Scheffer’s  statue — not  Albert  Cuyp’s  or  Nicolas 
Maes’s — which  rises  in  the  centre  of  the  town ; and  Ary 
Scheffer’s  sentimental  and  saccharine  inventions  fill  three 
rooms  in  the  museum.  It  is  amusing  in  the  midst  of  this 
riot  of  meek  romanticism  to  remember  that  Scheffer  painted 
Carlyle.  Dort  has  no  right  to  be  so  intoxicated  with  the 
excitement  of  having  given  birth  to  Scheffer,  for  his  father 
was  a German,  a mere  sojourner  in  the  Dutch  town. 

The  old  museum  of  Dort  has  just  been  moved  to  a new 
building  in  the  Lindengracht,  and  in  honour  of  the  event 
a loan  exhibition  of  modern  paintings  and  drawings  was 


36 


A CARVER  OF  WOOD 


opened  last  summer.  The  exhibition  gave  peculiar  op- 
portunity for  studying  the  work  of  G.  H.  Breitner,  the 
painter  of  Amsterdam  canals.  The  master  of  a fine  sombre 
impressionism,  Breitner  has  made  such  scenes  his  own. 
But  he  can  do  also  more  tender  and  subtle  things.  In 
this  collection  was  a little  oil  sketch  of  a mere  which  would 
not  have  suffered  had  it  been  hung  between  a Corot  and  a 
Daubigny ; and  a water-colour  drawing  of  a few  cottages 
and  a river  that  could  not  have  been  strengthened  by  any 
hand. 

Another  artist  of  Dort  was  Jan  Ter  ween  Aertz,  born 
in  1511,  whose  carvings  in  the  choir  of  the  Groote  Kerk 
are  among  its  chief  glories.  It  is  amazing  that  such  spirit 
and  movement  can  be  suggested  in  wood.  That  the  very 
semblance  of  life  can  be  captured  by  a painter  is  wonderful 
enough ; but  there  seems  to  me  something  more  ex- 
traordinary in  the  successful  conquest  of  the  difficulties 
which  confront  an  artist  of  such  ambition  as  this  Dort 
carver.  His  triumph  is  even  more  striking  than  that  of 
the  sculptor  in  marble.  The  sacristan  of  Dort’s  Groote 
Kerk  seems  more  eager  tovshow  a brass  screen  and  a gold 
christening  bowl  than  these  astounding  choir  stalls;  but 
tastes  always  diflPer. 

By  the  irony  of  fate  it  was  Dort — the  possessor  of 
Terween’s  carving  of  the  Triumph  of  Charles  V.  (a  pendant 
to  the  Triumph  of  the  Church  and  the  Eucharist) — that, 
in  1572,  only  a few  years  after  the  carving  was  made,  held 
the  Congress  which  virtually  decided  the  fate  of  Spain  in 
the  Netherlands.  Brill  had  begun  the  revolution  (as  we 
shall  see  in  our  last  chapter).  Flushing  was  the  first  to 
follow  suit,  Enkhuisen  then  caught  the  fever ; but  these 
were  individual  efforts : it  was  the  Congress  of  Dort  that 
authorised  and  systematised  the  revolt. 


THE  GREAT  CHURCH,  DORT 


THE  SYNOD  OF  DORT 


37 


The  scheme  of  this  book  precludes  a consecutive  account 
of  the  great  struggle  between  Holland  and  Spain — a 
struggle  equal  almost  to  that  between  Holland  and  her 
other  implacable  foe,  the  sea.  I assume  in  the  reader  a 
sufficient  knowledge  of  history  to  be  able  to  follow  the 
course  of  the  contest  as  it  moves  backwards  and  forwards 
in  these  pages — the  progress  of  the  narrative  being  dic- 
tated by  the  sequence  of  towns  in  the  itinerary  rather 
than  by  the  sequence  of  events  in  time.  The  death  of 
William  the  Silent,  for  example,  has  to  be  set  forth  in  the 
chapter  on  Delft,  where  the  tragedy  occurred,  and  where  he 
lies  buried,  long  before  we  reach  the  description  of  the  siege 
of  Haarlem  and  the  capture  of  De  Bossu  off  Hoorn,  while 
for  the  insurrection  of  Brill,  which  was  the  first  tangible 
token  of  Dutch  independence,  we  have  to  wait  until  the 
last  chapter  of  all.  The  reader  who  is  endowed  with 
sufficient  history  to  reconcile  these  divagations  should,  I 
think,  by  the  time  the  book  is  finished,  have  (with  Motley’s 
assistance)  a vivid  idea  of  this  great  war,  so  magnificently 
waged  by  Holland,  which  lowers  in  the  background  of 
almost  every  Dutch  town. 

A later  congress  at  Dort  was  the  famous  Synod  in 
1618-19,  in  which  a packed  house  of  Gomarians  or  Contra- 
Remonstrants,  pledged  to  carry  out  the  wishes  of  Maurice, 
Prince  of  Orange,  the  Stadtholder,  affected  to  subject  the 
doctrines  of  the  Arminians  or  Remonstrants  to  consci- 
entious examination.  These  doctrines  as  contained  in  the 
five  articles  of  the  Arminians  were  as  follows,  in  the  words 
of  Davies,  the  historian  of  Holland  : “ First,  that  God  had 
resolved  from  the  beginning  to  elect  into  eternal  life  those 
who  through  his  gi’ace  believed  in  Jesus  Christ,  and  con- 
tinued stedfast  in  the  faith  ; and,  on  the  contrary,  had 
resolved  to  leave  the  obstinate  and  unbelieving  to  eternal 


CHRISTIANS  IN  CONVOCATION 


38 

damnation ; secondly,  that  Christ  had  died  for  the  whole 
world,  and  obtained  for  all  remission  of  sins  and  reconcilia- 
tion with  God,  of  which,  nevertheless,  the  faithful  only  are 
made  partakers ; thirdly,  that  man  cannot  have  a saving 
faith  by  his  own  free  will,  since  while  in  a state  of  sin  he 
cannot  think  or  do  good,  but  it  is  necessary  that  the  grace 
of  God,  through  Christ,  should  regenerate  and  renew  the 
understanding  and  affections ; fourthly,  that  this  grace  is 
the  beginning,  continuance,  and  end  of  salvation,  and  that 
all  good  works  proceed  from  it,  but  that  it  is  not  irre- 
sistible ; fifthly,  that  although  the  faithful  receive  by  grace 
sufficient  strength  to  resist  Satan,  sin,  the  world,  and  the 
flesh,  yet  man  can  by  his  own  act  fall  away  from  this  state 
of  grace.” 

After  seven  months  wrangling  and  bitterness,  at  a cost 
of  a million  guelders,  the  Synod  came  to  no  conclusion 
more  Christian  than  that  no  punishment  was  too  bad  for 
the  holder  of  such  opinions,  which  were  dangerous  to  the 
State  and  subversive  of  true  religion.  The  result  was  that 
Holland’s  Calvinism  was  intensified  ; Barneveldt  (who  had 
been  in  prison  all  the  time)  was,  as  we  shall  see,  beheaded ; 
Grotius  and  Hoogenbeets  were  sentenced  to  imprisonment 
for  life ; and  Episcopius,  the  Remonstrant  leader  at  the 
Synod,  was,  together  with  many  others,  banished.  Epis- 
copius heard  his  sentence  with  composure,  merely  remark- 
ing, God  will  require  of  you  an  account  of  your  conduct 
at  the  great  day  of  His  judgment.  There  you  and  the 
whole  Synod  will  appear.  May  you  never  meet  with  a 
judge  such  as  the  Synod  has  been  to  us.” 

Davies  has  a story  of  Episcopius  which  is  too  good  to 
be  omitted.  On  banishment  he  was  given  his  expenses  by 
the  States.  Among  the  dollars  given  to  Episcopius  was 
one,  coined  apparently  in  the  Duchy  of  Brunswick,  bearing 


ALEXANDRE  THE  GREAT 


39 


on  the  one  side  the  figure  of  Truth,  with  the  motto,  Truth 
overcomes  all  things  ” ; and  on  the  reverse,  “In  well-doing 
fear  no  one  Episcopius  was  so  struck  with  the  coincidence 
that  he  had  the  coin  set  in  gold  and  carefully  preserved. 

It  is  impossible  for  any  one  who  has  read  La  Tulipe 
Noire  not  to  think  of  that  story  when  wandering  about 
Dort ; but  it  is  a mistake  to  read  it  in  the  town  itself,  for 
the  Great  Alexandre’s  fidelity  to  fact  will  not  bear  the 
strain.  Dumas  never  wore  his  historical,  botanical,  geo- 
graphical and  ethnographical  knowledge  more  like  a flower 
than  in  this  brave  but  breathless  story.  In  BoxteFs  envy 
we  may  perhaps  believe ; in  Gryphon’s  savagery ; and  in  the 
craft  and  duplicity  of  the  Stadtholder  ; but  if  ever  a French 
philosopher  and  a French  grisette  masqueraded  as  a Dutch 
horticulturist  and  a Frisian  waiting-maid  they  are  Cornelius 
van  Baerle  and  his  Rosa ; and  if  ever  a tulip  grew  by  magic 
rather  than  by  the  laws  of  nature  it  was  the  tulipe  noire. 
No  matter ; there  is  but  one  Dumas.  According  to  Flotow 
the  composer,  William  III.  of  Holland  told  Dumas  the 
story  of  the  black  tulip  at  his  coronation  in  1849,  remark- 
ing that  it  was  time  that  the  novelist  turned  his  attention 
to  Holland ; but  two  arguments  are  urged  against  this 
origin,  one  being  that  Paul  Lacroix — the  “Bibliophile 
Jacob  ” — is  said,  on  better  authority,  to  have  supplied  the 
germ  of  the  romance,  and  the  other  (which  is  even  better 
evidence),  that  had  the  stimulus  come  from  a monarch 
Dumas  would  hardly  have  refrained  from  saying  so  (and 
more)  in  the  preface  of  the  book. 

Cornelius  de  Witt,  whose  tragedy  is  at  the  threshold 
of  the  romance,  was  apprehended  at  Dort,  on  his  bed  of 
sickness,  and  carried  thence  to  the  Hague,  to  be  imprisoned 
in  the  Gevangenpoort,  which  we  shall  visit,  and  torn  to 
pieces  by  the  populace  close  by. 


40 


TO  GORCUM  BY  RIVER 


Another  literary  association.  From  Dorfc  came  the 
English  cynical  writer  Bernard  Mandeville,  born  in  1670, 
author  of  The  Fable  of  the  Bees^  that  very  shrewd  and 
advanced  commentary  upon  national  hypocrisies — so  ad- 
vanced, indeed,  that  several  of  the  more  revolutionary  of 
the  thinkers  of  the  present  day,  whose  ideas  are  thought 
peculiarly  modern,  have  not  really  got  beyond  it.  After 
leaving  Leyden  as  a doctor  of  medicine,  Mandeville  settled 
in  England,  somewhen  at  the  end  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury, and  became  well  known  in  the  Coffee  Houses  as  a wit 
and  good  fellow. 

We  are  a curious  people  when  we  travel.  At  Dort  I 
heard  a young  Englishman  inquiring  of  the  landlord  how 
best  to  spend  his  Sunday.  One  can  hardly  go  on  one  of 
the  river  excursions,”  he  remarked;  ^‘they  are  so  mixed.” 
And  the  landlord,  with  a lunch  at  two  florins,  fifty,  in  his 
mind,  which  it  was  desirable  that  as  many  persons  as 
possible  should  eat  and  pay  for,  heartily  agreed  with  him. 
None  the  less  it  seemed  well  to  join  the  excursion  to 
Gorinchem ; and  thence  we  steamed  on  a fine  cloudy 
Sunday,  the  river  whipped  grey  by  a strong  cross  wind, 
and  the  little  ships  that  beat  up  and  passed  us,  all  aslant. 
At  Gorinchem^  (pronounced  Gorcum)  we  changed  at  once 
into  another  steamer,  a sorry  tub,  as  wide  as  it  was  short, 
and  steamed  to  Woudrichem  (called  Worcum)  hoping  to 
explore  the  fortress  of  Loevenstein.  But  Loevenstein  is 
enisled  and  beyond  the  reach  of  the  casual  visitor,  and 
we  had  therefore  to  sit  in  the  upper  room  of  the  Belle- 
vue inn,  overlooking  the  river,  and  await  the  tub’s  de- 
liberate return,  while  the  tugs  and  the  barges  trailed  past. 
Save  for  modifications  brought  about  by  steam,  the  scene 
can  be  now  little  different  from  that  in  the  days  when 
Hugo  Grotius  was  imprisoned  in  the  castle. 


A LADY 

PAULUS  MOREELSE 
From  the  picture  in  the  Ryks  Museum 


A CROWN  TO  HER  HUSBAND 


41 


The  philosopher’s  escape  is  one  of  the  best  things  in 
the  history  of  wives.  Two  ameliorations  were  permitted 
him  by  Maurice — the  presence  of  the  Vrouw  Grotius  and 
the  solace  of  books.  As  it  happened,  this  lenience  could 
not  have  been  less  fortunately  (or,  for  Grotius,  more  for- 
tunately) framed.  Books  came  continually  to  the  prisoner, 
which,  when  read,  were  returned  in  the  same  chest  that 
conveyed  his  linen  to  the  Gorcum  wash.  At  first  the  guard 
carefully  examined  each  departing  load ; but  after  a while 
the  form  was  omitted.  Grotius’s  wife,  a woman  of  no  common 
order  (when  asked  why  she  did  not  sue  for  her  husband’s 
pardon,  she  had  replied,  I will  not  do  it : if  he  have 
deserved  it  let  them  strike  off’  his  head”),  was  quick  to 
notice  the  negligence  of  the  guard,  and  giving  out  that 
her  husband  was  bedridden,  she  concealed  him  in  the  chest, 
and  he  was  dumped  on  a tjalck  and  earned  over  to  Gorcum. 
While  on  his  journey  he  had  the  shuddering  experience  of 
hearing  some  one  remark  that  the  box  was  heavy  enough  to 
have  a man  in  it ; but  it  was  his  only  danger.  A Gorcum 
friend  extricated  him ; and,  disguised  as  a carpenter  armed 
with  a footrule,  he  set  forth  on  his  travels  to  Antwerp.  Once 
certain  that  Grotius  was  safe,  his  wife  informed  the  guard, 
and  the  hue  and  cry  was  raised.  But  it  was  raised  in  vain. 
At  first  there  was  a suggestion  that  the  lady  should  be 
retained  in  his  stead,  but  all  Holland  applauded  her  deed 
and  she  was  permitted  to  go  free. 

The  river,  as  I have  said,  must  be  still  much  the  same 
as  in  Grotius’s  day ; while  the  two  towns  Gorcum  and 
Worcum  cluster  about  their  noble  church  towers  as  of 
old.  Worcum  is  hardly  altered;  but  Gorcum’s  railway 
and  factories  have  enlarged  her  borders.  She  has  now 
twelve  thousand  inhabitants,  some  eleven  thousand  of 
whom  were  in  the  streets  when,  the  tub  having  at  length 


4^ 


THE  FATAL  HAT 


crawled  back  with  us,  we  walked  through  them  to  the 
station. 

Odd  how  one  nation’s  prettiness  is  another’s  grotesque. 
My  companion  was  wearing  one  of  those  comely  straw  hats 
trimmed  with  roses  which  we  call  Early  Victorian,  and  which 
the  hot  summer  of  1904  brought  into  fashion  again  on 
account  of  their  peculiar  suitability  to  keep  off  the  sun. 
In  England  we  think  them  becoming  ; upon  certain  heads 
they  are  charming.  But  no  head  must  wear  such  a hat  at 
Gorcum  unless  it  would  court  disastei*.  The  town  is  gay 
and  spruce,  bright  as  a new  pin  ; the  people  are  outrageous. 

I suppose  that  the  hat  turned  down  at  the  precise  point 
at  which,  according  to  Gorcum’s  canons  of  taste,  it  should 
have  turned  up.  Whatever  it  did  was  unpardonable,  and 
we  had  to  be  informed  of  the  solecism.  We  were  informed 
in  various  ways : the  men  whistled,  the  women  sniggered, 
the  girls  laughed,  the  children  shouted  and  ran  beside  us. 
The  same  hat  had  been  disregarded  by  the  sweet-mannered 
friendly  Middelburgians ; it  had  raised  no  smile  at  Breda. 
At  Dordrecht,  it  is  true,  eyes  had  been  opened  wide ; at 
Bergen-op-Zoom  mouths  had  opened  too ; but  such  atten- 
tion was  nothing  compared  with  Gorcum’s  pains  to  make 
two  strangers  uncomfortable. 

As  it  happened,  we  had  philosophy,  and  the  discomfort 
was  very  slight.  Indeed,  after  a while,  as  we  ran  the 
gauntlet  to  the  station,  annoyance  gave  way  to  interest. 
We  found  ourselves  looking  ahead  for  distant  wayfarers 
who  had  not  yet  tasted  the  rare  joy  which  rippled  like  a 
ship’s  wake  behind  us.  We  waited  for  the  ecstatic  moment 
when  their  faces  should  light  with  the  joke.  Sometimes 
a mother  standing  at  the  door  would  see  us  and  call  to 
her  family  to  come — and  come  quickly,  if  they  would  not 
be  disappointed ! Women,  lurking  behind  Holland’s  blue 


THE  GAUNTLET  RUN 


4B 


gauze  blinds,  would  be  seen  to  break  away  with  a hasty 
summoning  movement.  Children  down  side  streets  who 
had  just  realised  their  exceptional  fortune  would  be  heard 
shouting  the  glad  tidings  to  their  friends.  The  porter  who 
wheeled  our  luggage  was  stopped  again  and  again  to 
answer  questions  concerning  his  fantastic  employers. 

In  course  of  time — it  is  a long  way  to  the  station — we 
grew  to  feel  a shade  of  pique  if  any  one  passed  us  and  took 
no  notice.  To  bulk  so  hugely  in  the  public  eye  became  a 
new  pleasure.  I had  not  known  before  what  Britannia 
must  feel  like  on  the  summit  of  the  largest  of  the  cars 
in  a circus  procession. 

I am  convinced  that  such  costly  and  equivocal  success  as 
the  British  arms  achieved  over  the  Boers  had  nothing  to  do 
with  Gorcum’s  feelings.  The  town’s  aesthetic  ideals  were 
honestly  outraged,  and  it  took  the  simplest  means  of 
making  its  protest. 

We  did  not  mean  to  wait  at  the  station  ; having 
left  our  luggage  there,  we  had  intended  to  explore  the 
town.  But  there  is  a limit  even  to  the  passion  for  notoriety, 
and  we  had  reached  it,  passed  it.  We  read  and  wrote 
letters  in  that  waiting-room  for  nearly  three  hours. 

At  Gorcum  was  born,  in  1637,  Jan  van  der  Hey  den,  a 
very  attractive  painter  of  street  scenes,  combining  exactitude 
of  detail  with  rich  colour,  who  used  to  get  Andreas  van 
der  Velde  to  put  in  the  figures.  He  has  a view  of  Cologne 
in  the  National  Gallery  which  is  exceedingly  pleasing,  and 
a second  version  in  the  Wallace  Collection.  I shall  never 
forget  his  birthplace. 

We  came  into  Utrecht  in  the  evening.  At  Culemberg 
the  country  begins  to  grow  very  green  and  rich : smooth 
meadows  and  vast  woods  as  far  as  one  can  see : plovers  all 
the  way.  The  light  transfiguring  this  scene  was  exactly 


44 


UTRECHT  CATHEDRAL 


the  golden  light  which  one  sees  in  Albert  Cuyp’s  most 
peaceful  landscapes. 

When  I was  last  on  this  journey  the  time  was  spring,  and 
the  sliding,  pointed  roofs  of  the  ricks  were  at  their  lowest, 
with  their  four  poles  high  and  naked  above  them,  like 
scaffolding.  But  now,  in  August,  they  were  all  resting  on 
the  top  pegs,  a solid  square  tower  of  hay  beneath  each ; 
looking  in  the  evening  light  for  all  the  world  as  if  every 
farmer  had  his  private  Norman  church. 

The  note  of  Utrecht  is  superior  satisfaction.  It  has 
discreet  verdant  parks,  a wonderful  campanile,  a Univer- 
sity, large  comfortable  houses,  carriages  and  pairs.  Its 
cathedral  is  the  only  church  in  Holland  (with  the  exception 
of  the  desecrated  fane  at  Veere)  for  the  privilege  of  enter- 
ing which  I was  not  asked  to  pay.  I have  an  uneasy 
feeling  that  it  was  an  oversight,  and  that  if  by  any  chance 
this  statement  meets  an  authoritative  eye  some  one  may 
be  removed  to  one  of  the  penal  establishments  and  steps 
be  taken  to  collect  my  debt.  But  so  it  was.  And  yet  it 
is  possible  that  the  free  right  of  entrance  is  intentional ; 
since  to  charge  for  a building  so  unpardonably  disfigured 
would  be  a hardy  action.  The  Gothic  arches  have  great 
beauty,  but  it  is  impossible  from  any  point  to  get  more 
than  a broken  view  on  account  of  the  high  painted  wooden 
walls  with  which  the  pews  have  been  enclosed. 

The  cathedral  is  only  a fragment;  the  nave  fell  in, 
isolating  the  bell  tower,  during  a tempest  in  1674,  and  by 
that  time  all  interest  in  churches  as  beautiful  and  sacred 
buildings  having  died  out  of  Holland,  never  to  return,  no 
effort  was  made  to  restore  it.  But  it  must,  before  the 
storm,  have  been  superb,  and  of  a vastness  superior  to  any 
in  the  country. 

I find  a very  pleasant  passage  upon  Holland’s  great 


UTRECHT 


DUTCH  ARCHITECTURAL  GEMS 


45 


churches,  and  indeed  upon  its  best  architecture  in  general, 
in  an  essay  on  Utrecht  Cathedral  by  Mr.  L.  A.  Corbeille. 

Gothic  churches  on  a grand  scale  are  as  abundant  in  the 
Netherlands  as  they  are  at  home,  but  to  find  one  of  them 
drawn  or  described  in  any  of  the  otherwise  comprehensive 
architectural  works,  which  appear  from  time  to  time,  is 
the  rarest  of  experiences.  The  Hollanders  are  accused  of 
mere  apishness  in  employing  the  Gothic  style,  and  of 
downright  dulness  in  apprehending  its  import  and  beauty. 
Yet  a man  who  has  found  that  bit  of  Rotterdam  which 
beats  Venice ; who  has  seen,  from  under  Delft’s  lindens  on 
a summer  evening,  the  image  of  the  Oude  Kerk’s  leaning 
tower  in  the  still  canal,  and  has  gone  to  bed5  perchance 
to  awake  in  the  moonlight  while  the  Nieuwe  Kerk’s 
many  bells  are  rippling  a silver  tune  over  the  old  roofs 
and  gables ; who  has  drunk  his  beer  full  opposite  the 
stadhuis  at  Leyden,  and  seen  Haarlem’s  huge  church 
across  magnificent  miles  of  gaudy  tulips,  and  watched  from 
a brown-sailed  boat  on  the  Zuider  Zee  a buoy  on  the  horizon 
grow  into  the  water-gate  of  Hoorn ; who  knows  his  Gouda 
and  Bois-le-duc  and  Alkmaar  and  Kampen  and  Utrecht : 
this  man  does  not  fret  over  wasted  days.” 

Mr.  Corbeille  continues,  later : Looking  down  a side 

street  of  Rotterdam  at  the  enormous  flank  of  St.  Lawrence’s, 
and  again  at  St.  Peter’s  in  Leyden,  it  seems  as  if  all  the 
bricks  in  the  world  have  been  built  up  in  one  place.  Apart 
from  their  smaller  size,  bricks  appear  far  more  numerous 
in  a wall  than  do  blocks  of  stone,  because  they  make  a 
stronger  contrast  with  the  mortar.  In  the  laborious 
articulation  of  these  millions  of  clay  blocks  one  first  finds 
Egypt ; then  quickly  remembers  how  indigenous  it  all  is, 
and  how  characteristic  of  the  untiring  Hollander,  who 
rules  the  waves  even  more  proudly  than  the  Briton,  and 


46 


JAN  VAN  SCORE! 


has  cheated  them  of  the  very  ground  beneath  his  feet. 
And  if  sermons  may  be  found  in  bricks  as  well  as  stones, 
one  has  a thought  while  looking  at  them  about  Christianity 
itself.  Certainly  there  is  often  pitiful  littleness  and  short- 
comings in  the  individual  believer,  just  as  each  separate 
brick  of  these  millions  is  stained  or  worn  or  fractured ; and 
yet  the  Christian  Church,  august  and  significant,  still 
towers  before  men  ; even  as  these  old  blocks  of  clay  com- 
pile vastly  and  undeniably  in  an  overpowering  whole.” 

Among  a huddle  of  bad  and  indifferent  pictures  in  the 
Kunstliefde  Museum  is  a series  of  four  long  paintings 
by  Jan  van  Scorel  (whom  we  met  at  Rotterdam),  represent- 
ing a band  of  pilgrims  who  travelled  from  Utreclit  to 
Jerusalem  in  the  sixteenth  century.  Two  of  these  pictures 
are  reproduced  on  the  opposite  page,  the  principal  figure 
in  the  lower  one — in  the  middle,  in  white — being  Jan  van 
Scorel  himself.  The  faces  are  all  such  as  one  can  believe  in  ; 
just  so,  we  feel,  did  the  pilgrims  look,  and  what  a thousand 
pities  there  was  no  Jan  van  Scorel  to  accompany  Chaucer! 
These  are  the  best  pictures  in  Utrecht,  which  cannot  have 
any  great  interest  in  art  or  it  would  not  allow  that  tramway 
through  its  bell  tower.  In  the  reproduction  the  faces  neces- 
sarily become  very  small,  but  they  are  still  full  of  character, 
and  one  may  see  the  sympathetic  hand  of  a master  in  all. 

Jan  van  Scorel  was  only  a settler  in  Utrecht ; the  most 
illustrious  citizen  to  whom  it  gave  birth  was  Paulus 
Moreelse,  but  the  city  has,  I think,  only  one  of  his  pictures, 
and  that  not  his  best.  He  was  born  in  1571,  and  he  died 
at  Utrecht  in  1638.  His  portraits  are  very  rich : either 
he  had  interesting  sitters  or  he  imparted  interest  to  them. 
Opposite  page  40  I have  reproduced  his  portrait  of  a 
lady  in  the  Ryks  Museum  at  Amsterdam,  which  amongst 
so  many  fine  pictures  one  may  perhaps  at  the  outset  treat 


PILGRIMS  TO  JERUSALEM 

JAN  VAN  SCOREL 

From  the  picture  in  the  Ku7tstliefde  Museti7n,  Utrecht 


A RECEPTIVE  MUSEUM 


47 


with  too  little  ceremony,  but  which  undoubtedly  will  assert 
itself.  It  is  a picture  that,  as  we  say,  grows  on  one  : the 
Unknown  Lady  becomes  more  and  more  mischievous,  more 
and  more  necessary. 

The  little  Archiepiscopal  Museum  at  Utrecht  is  as  small 
— or  as  large — as  a museum  should  be : one  can  see  it 
comfortably.  It  has  many  treasures,  all  ecclesiastical,  and 
seventy  different  kinds  of  lace  ; but  to  me  it  is  memorable 
for  the  panel  portrait  of  a woman  by  Jan  van  Scorel,  a 
very  sweet  sedate  face,  beautifully  painted,  which  one  would 
like  to  coax  into  a less  religious  mood. 

Utrecht  is  very  proud  of  a wide  avenue  of  lime  trees — a 
triple  avenue,  as  one  often  sees  in  Holland — called  the  Malie- 
baan ; but  more  beautiful  are  the  semi-circular  Oude  and 
Nieuwe  Grachts,  with  their  moat-like  canals  laving  the  walls 
of  serene  dignified  houses,  each  gained  by  its  own  bridge. 

At  the  north  end  of  the  Maliebaan  is  the  Hoogeland 
Park,  with  a fringe  of  spacious  villas  that  might  be  in 
Kensington  ; and  here  is  the  Antiquarian  Museum,  notable 
among  its  very  miscellaneous  riches,  which  resemble  the 
bankrupt  stock  of  a curiosity  dealer,  for  the  most  elaborate 
dolls’  house  in  Holland — perhaps  in  the  world.  Its  date 
is  1680,  and  it  represents  accurately  the  home  of  a wealthy 
aristocratic  doll  of  that  day.  Nothing  was  forgotten  by 
the  designer  of  this  miniature  palace ; special  paintings,  very 
nude,  were  made  for  its  salon,  and  the  humblest  kitchen 
utensils  are  not  missing.  I thought  the  most  interesting 
rooms  the  office  where  the  Major  Domo  sits  at  his  intricate 
labours,  and  the  store  closet.  The  museum  has  many  very 
valuable  treasures,  but  so  many  poor  pictures  and  articles 
— all  presents  or  legacies — that  one  feels  that  it  must  be 
the  rule  to  accept  whatever  is  offered,  without  any  scrutiny 
of  the  horse’s  teeth. 


CHAPTER  IV 


DELFT 

To  Delft  by  canal — House-cleaning  by  immersion — The  New  Church — 
William  the  Silent’s  tomb — His  assassin — The  story  of  the  crime — 
The  tomb  of  Grotius — Dutch  justice — The  Old  Church — Admiral 
Tromp — The  mission  of  the  broom — The  sexton’s  pipe — Vermeer 
of  Delft — Lost  masterpieces — The  wooden  petticoat — Modern  Delft 
pottery  and  old  breweries; 

I TRAVELLED  to  Delft  from  Rotterdam  in  a little 
steam  passenger  barge,  very  long  and  narrow  to  fit 
it  for  navigating  the  locks ; which,  as  it  is,  it  scrapes. 
We  should  have  started  exactly  at  the  hour  were  it  not 
that  a very  small  boy  on  the  bank  interrupted  one  of  the 
crew  who  was  unmooring  the  boat  by  asking  for  a light 
for  his  cigar,  and  the  transaction  delayed  us  a minute. 

It  rained  dismally,  and  I sat  in  the  stuffy  cabin,  either 
peering  at  the  country  through  the  window  or  talking  with 
a young  Dutchman,  the  only  other  traveller.  At  one 
village  a boy  was  engaged  in  house-cleaning  by  immersing 
the  furniture,  piece  by  piece,  bodily  in  the  canal.  Now 
and  then  we  met  a barge  in  full  sail  on  its  way  to  Rotter- 
dam, or  overtook  one  being  towed  towards  Delft,  the  man 
at  the  rope  bent  double  under  what  looked  like  an  im- 
possible task. 

Little  guides  to  the  tombs  in  both  the  Old  and  the  New 
Church  of  Delft  have  been  prepared  for  the  convenience  of 
visitors  by  Dr.  G,  Morre,  and  translations  in  English  have 

(48) 


J 


WILLIAM  THE  SILENT'S  TOMB  49 

been  made  by  D.  Goslings,  both  gentlemen,  I presume, 
being  local  savants.  The  New  Church  contains  the  more 
honoured  dust,  for  there  repose  not  only  William  the 
Silent,  who  was  perhaps  the  greatest  of  modern  patriots 
and  rulers,  but  also  Grotius. 

The  tomb  of  William  the  Silent  is  an  elaborate  erection, 
of  stone  and  marble,  statuary  and  ornamentation.  Justice 
and  Liberty,  Religion  and  Valour,  represented  by  female 
figures,  guard  the  tomb.  It  seems  to  me  to  lack  impressive- 
ness : the  man  beneath  was  too  fine  to  need  all  this  display 
and  talent.  More  imposing  is  the  simplicity  of  the  monu- 
ment to  the  great  scholar  near  by.  Yet  remembering  the 
struggle  of  William  the  Silent  against  Spain  and  Rome,  it 
is  impossible  to  stand  unmoved  before  the  marble  figure  of 
the  Prince,  lying  there  for  all  time  with  his  dog  at  his  feet 
— the  dog  who,  after  the  noble  habit  of  the  finest  of  such 
animals,  refused  food  and  drink  when  his  master  died,  and 
so  faded  away  rather  than  owe  allegiance  and  affection  to 
a lesser  man. 

There  is  an  eloquent  Latin  epitaph  in  gold  letters  on 
the  tomb ; but  a better  epitaph  is  to  be  found  in  the  last 
sentence  of  Motley’s  great  history,  perhaps  the  most 
perfect  last  sentence  that  any  book  ever  had  : “ As  long 
as  he  lived,  he  was  the  guiding-star  of  a whole  brave  nation, 
and  when  he  died  the  little  children  cried  in  the  streets 

Opposite  the  Old  Church  is  the  Gymnasium  Publicum. 
Crossing  the  court-yard  and  entering  the  confronting  door- 
way, one  is  instantly  on  the  very  spot  where  William  the 
Silent,  whose  tomb  we  have  just  seen,  met  his  death  on 
July  10th,  1584. 

The  Prince  had  been  living  at  Delft  for  a while,  in  this 
house,  his  purpose  partly  being  to  be  in  the  city  for  the 
christening  of  his  son  Frederick  Henry.  To  him  on  July 
4 


50  AN  EMBARRASSMENT  OF  ASSASSINS 


8th  came  a special  messenger  from  the  French  Court  with 
news  of  the  death  of  the  Duke  of  Anjou  ; the  messenger, 
a protege  of  the  Prince’s,  according  to  his  own  story  being 
Francis  Guion,  a mild  and  pious  Protestant,  whose  father 
had  been  martyred  as  a Calvinist.  How  far  removed  was 
the  truth  Motley  shall  tell : Francis  Guion,  the  Calvinist, 

son  of  the  martyred  Calvinist,  was  in  reality  Balthazar 
Gerard,  a fanatical  Catholic,  whose  father  and  mother 
were  still  living  at  Villefans  in  Burgundy.  Before  reaching 
man’s  estate,  he  had  formed  the  design  of  murdering  the 
Prince  of  Orange,  ^ who,  so  long  as  he  lived,  seemed  like  to 
remain  a rebel  against  the  Catholic  King,  and  to  make 
every  effort  to  disturb  the  repose  of  the  Roman  Catholic 
Apostolic  religion  ’.  When  but  twenty  years  of  age,  he 
had  struck  his  dagger  with  all  his  might  into  a door,  ex- 
claiming, as  he  did  so,  ‘ Would  that  the  blow  had  been  in 
the  heart  of  Orange  ! ’ ” 

In  1582,  however,  the  news  had  gone  out  that  Jaureguy 
had  killed  the  Prince  at  Antwerp,  and  Gerard  felt  that  his 
mission  was  at  an  end.  But  when  the  Prince  recovered, 
his  murderous  enthusiasm  redoubled,  and  he  offered  himself 
formally  and  with  matter-of-fact  precision  to  the  Prince 
of  Parma  as  heaven’s  minister  of  vengeance.  The  Prince, 
who  had  long  been  seeking  such  an  emissary,  at  first  de- 
clined the  alliance : he  had  become  too  much  the  prey  of 
soldiers  of  fortune  who  represented  themselves  to  be  expert 
murderers  but  in  whom  he  could  put  no  trust.  In  Motley’s 
words  :*  Many  unsatisfactory  assassins  had  presented  them- 
selves from  time  to  time,  and  Alexander  had  paid  money  in 
hand  to  various  individuals — Italians,  Spaniards,  Lorrainers, 
Scotchmen,  Englishmen,  who  had  generally  spent  the  sums 
received  without  attempting  the  job.  Others  were  sup- 
posed to  be  still  engaged  in  the  enterprise,  and  at  that 


g6rard»s  opportunity 


51 


moment  there  were  four  persons — each  unknown  to  the 
others,  and  of  different  nations — in  the  city  of  Delft,  seeking 
to  compass  the  death  of  William  the  Silent.  Shag-eared, 
military,  hirsute  ruffians,  ex-captains  of  free  companies  and 
such  marauders,  were  daily  offering  their  services  ; there 
was  no  lack  of  them,  and  they  had  done  but  little.  How 
should  Parma,  seeing  this  obscure,  undersized,  thin-bearded, 
runaway  clerk  before  him,  expect  pith  and  energy  from  him  ? 
He  thought  him  quite  unfit  for  an  enterprise  of  moment, 
and  declared  as  much  to  his  secret  councillors  and  to  the 
King.’^ 

Gerard,  however,  had  supporters,  and  in  time  the 
Prince  of  Parma  came  to  take  a more  favourable  view  of 
his  qualifications  and  sincerity,  but  his  confidence  was 
insufficient  to  wan*ant  him  in  advancing  any  money  for 
the  purpose.  The  result  was  that  Gerard,  whose  domin- 
ating idea  amounted  to  mania,  proceeded  in  his  own  way. 
His  first  step  was  to  ingratiate  himself  with  the  Prince  of 
Orange.  This  he  did  by  a series  of  misrepresentations  and 
fraud,  and  was  recommended  by  the  Prince  to  the  Signeur 
of  Schoneval,  who  on  leaving  Delft  on  a mission  to  the 
Duke  of  Anjou,  added  him  to  his  suite. 

The  death  of  the  Duke  gave  Gerard  his  chance,  and  he 
obtained  permission  to  cany  despatches  to  the  Prince  of 
Orange,  as  we  have  seen.  The  Prince  received  him  in  his 
bedroom,  after  his  wont.  Motley  now  relates  the  tragedy : 
Here  was  an  opportunity  such  as  he  (Gerard)  had  never 
dared  to  hope  for.  The  arch-enemy  to  the  Church  and  to 
the  human  race,  whose  death  would  confer  upon  his  de- 
stroyer wealth  and  nobility  in  {this  world,  besides  a crown 
of  glory  in  the  next,  lay  unarmed,  alone,  in  bed,  before  the 
man  who  had  thirsted  seven  long  years  for  his  blood. 

Balthazar  could  scarcely  control  his  emotions  suf- 


52 


THE  PATH  MADE  EASY 


ficiently  to  answer  the  questions  which  the  Prince  addressed 
to  him  concerning  the  death  of  Anjou,  but  Orange,  deeply 
engaged  with  the  despatches,  and  with  the  reflections 
which  their  deeply  important  contents  suggested,  did  not 
observe  the  countenance  of  the  humble  Calvinistic  exile, 
who  had  been  recently  recommended  to  his  patronage  by 
Villiers.  Gerard  had,  moreover,  made  no  preparation  for 
an  interview  so  entirely  unexpected,  had  come  unarmed, 
and  had  formed  no  plan  for  escape.  * He  was  obliged  to 
forego  his  prey  most  when  within  his  reach,  and  after  com- 
municating all  the  information  which  the  Prince  required, 
he  was  dismissed  from  the  chamber. 

“ It  was  Sunday  morning,  and  the  bells  were  tolling  for 
church.  Upon  leaving  the  house  he  loitered  about  the  court- 
yard, furtively  examining  the  premises,  so  that  a sergeant 
of  halberdiers  asked  him  why  he  was  waiting  there. 
Balthazar  meekly  replied  that  he  was  desirous  of  attending 
divine  worship  in  the  church  opposite,  but  added,  pointing 
to  his  shabby  and  travel-stained  attire,  that,  without  at 
least  a new  pair  of  shoes  and  stockings,  he  was  unfit  to 
join  the  congregation.  Insignificant  as  ever,  the  small, 
pious,  dusty  stranger  excited  no  suspicion  in  the  mind  of  the 
good-natured  sergeant.  He  forthwith  spoke  of  the  want 
of  Gerard  to  an  officer,  by  whom  they  were  communicated 
to  Orange  himself,  and  the  Prince  instantly  ordered  a sum 
of  money  to  be  given  him.  Thus  Balthazar  obtained  from 
William’s  charity  what  Parma’s  thrift  had  denied— a fund 
for  carrying  out  his  purpose  ! 

Next  morning,  with  the  money  thus  procured  he  pur- 
chased a pair  of  pistols,  or  small  carabines,  from  a soldier, 
chaffering  long  about  the  price  because  the  vendor  could 
not  supply  a particular  kind  of  chopped  bullets  or  slugs 
which  he  desired.  Before  the  sunset  of  the  following  day 


JULY  10,  1584 


53 


that  soldier  had  stabbed  himself  to  the  heart,  and  died 
despairing,  on  hearing  for  what  purpose  the  pistols  had 
been  bought. 

“ On  Tuesday,  the  10th  of  July,  1584,  at  about  half-past 
twelve,  the  Prince,  with  his  wife  on  his  arm,  and  followed 
by  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  his  family,  was  going  to 
the  dining-room.  William  the  Silent  was  dressed  upon 
that  day,  according  to  his  usual  custom,  in  very  plain 
fashion.  He  wore  a wide-leaved,  loosely  shaped  hat  of 
dark  felt,  with  a silken  cord  round  the  crown, — such  as  had 
been  worn  by  the  Beggars  in  the  early  days  of  the  revolt. 
A high  ruff  encircled  his  neck,  from  which  also  depended 
one  of  the  Beggars’  medals,  with  the  motto,  ^ FidMes  au 
roy  jusqiCd  la  hesace^  while  a loose  surcoat  of  gray  frieze 
cloth,  over  a tawny  leather  doublet,  with  wide  slashed 
underclothes  completed  his  costume.^ 

‘ ‘ Gerard  presented  himself  at  the  doorway,  and  demanded 
a passport.  The  Princess,  struck  with  the  pale  and  agi- 
tated countenance  of  the  man,  anxiously  questioned  her 
husband  concerning  the  stranger.  The  Prince  carelessly 
observed,  that  ‘ it  was  merely  a person  who  came  for  a 
passport,’  ordering,  at  the  same  time,  a secretary  forthwith 
to  prepare  one.  The  Princess,  still  not  relieved,  observed 
in  an  undertone  that  ^ she  had  never  seen  so  villanous  a 
countenance  Orange,  however,  not  at  all  impressed  with 
the  appearance  of  Gerard,  conducted  himself  at  table  with 
his  usual  cheerfulness,  conversing  much  with  the  burgo- 
master of  Leewarden,  the  only  guest  present  at  the  family 
dinner,  concerning  the  political  and  religious  aspects  of 
Friesland.  At  two  o’clock  the  company  rose  from  table. 
The  Prince  led  the  way,  intending  to  pass  to  his  private 

^ The  whole  dress  worn  by  the  Prince  on  this  tragical  occasion  is  still 
to  be  seen  at  The  Hague  in  th^  National  Museum. — Motley. 


54 


THE  PRINCE’S  LAST  WORDS 


apartments  above.  The  dining-room,  which  was  on  the 
ground-floor,  opened  into  a little  square  vestibule  which 
communicated,  through  an  arched  passage-way,  with  the 
main  entrance  into  the  court-yard.  This  vestibule  was 
also  directly  at  the  foot  of  the  wooden  staircase  leading 
to  the  next  floor,  and  was  scarcely  six  feet  in  width.^ 
Upon  its  left  side,  as  one  approached  the  stairway,  was 
an  obscure  arch,  sunk  deep  in  the  wall,  and  completely 
in  the  shadow  of  the  door.  Behind  this  arch  a portal 
opened  to  the  narrow  lane  at  the  side  of  the  house.  The 
stairs  themselves  were  completely  lighted  by  a large 
window,  half-way  up  the  flight.  The  Prince  came  from  the 
dining-room,  and  began  leisurely  to  ascend.  He  had  only 
reached  the  second  stair,  when  a man  emerged  from  the 
sunken  arch,  and,  standing  within  a foot  or  two  of  him, 
discharged  a pistol  full  at  his  heart.” 

When  Jaureguy  had  fired  at  the  Prince  two  years  earlier, 
the  ball  passing  through  his  jaw,  the  Prince,  as  he  faltered 
under  the  shock,  cried,  “ Do  not  kill  him  — I forgive 
him  my  death ! ” But  he  had  no  time  to  express  any 
such  plea  for  his  assailant  after  Gerard’s  cruel  shots. 

Three  balls,”  says  Motley,  “entered  his  body,  one  of 
which,  passing  quite  through  him,  struck  with  violence 
against  the  wall  beyond.  The  Prince  exclaimed  in 
French,  as  he  felt  the  wound,  my  God,  have  mercy 
upon  my  soul ! O my  God,  have  mercy  upon  this  poor 
people ! ’ 

“These  were  the  last  words  he  ever  spoke,  save  that 
when  his  sister,  Catherine  of  Schwartzburgh,  immediately 
afterwards  asked  him  if  he  commended  his  soul  to  Jesus 
Christ,  he  faintly  answered,  ‘Yes’.” 

^ The  house  now  called  the  Prinsen  Hof  (but  used  as  a barrack)  still 
presents  nearly  the  sante  appearance  as  it  did  in  1584. — Motley. 


THE  TOMB  OF  GROTIUS 


55 


Never  has  the  pistol  done  worse  work.  The  Prince  was 
only  fifty-one;  he  was  full  of  vigour;  his  character  had 
never  been  stronger,  his  wisdom  never  more  mature.  Had 
he  lived  a few  years  longer  the  country  would  have  been 
saved  years  of  war  and  misery. 

One  may  stand  to-day  exactly  where  the  Prince  stood 
when  he  was  shot.  The  mark  of  a bullet  in  the  wall  is 
still  shown.  The  dining-room,  from  which  he  had  come, 
now  contains  a collection  of  relics  of  his  great  career. 

Let  us  return  to  the  New  Church,  past  the  statue  of 
Grotius  in  the  great  square,  in  order  to  look  again  at  that 
philosopher’s  memorial.  Grotius,  who  was  born  at  Delft, 
was  extraordinarily  precocious.  He  went  to  Leyden  Uni- 
versity and  studied  under  Scaliger  when  he  was  eleven ; 
at  sixteen  he  was  practising  as  a lawyer  at  The  Hague. 
This  is  D.  Goslings’  translation  of  the  inscription  on  his 
tomb : — 

Sacred  to  Hugo  Grotius 

The  Wonder  of  Europe,  the  sole  astonishment  of  the  learned  world, 
the  splendid  work  of  nature  surpassing  itself,  the  summit  of  genius,  the 
image  of  virtue,  the  ornament  raised  above  mankind,  to  whom  the  de- 
fended honour  of  true  religion  gave  cedars  from  the  top  of  Lebanon, 
whom  Mars  adorned  with  laurels  and  Pallas  with  olive  branches,  when 
he  had  published  the  right  of  war  and  peace : whom  the  Thames  and  the 
Seine  regarded  as  the  wonder  of  the  Dutch,  and  whom  the  court  of 
Sweden  took  in  its  service:  Here  lies  Grotius.  Shun  this  tomb,  ye 
who  do  not  burn  with  love  of  the  Muses  and  your  country. 

Grotius  can  hardly  have  burned  with  love  of  the  sense  of 
justice  of  his  own  country,  for  reasons  with  which  we  are 
familiar.  His  sentence  of  life-long  imprisonment,  passed 
by  Prince  Maurice  of  Orange,  who  lies  hard  by  in  the 
same  church,  was  passed  in  1618.  His  escape  in  the  chest 
(like  General  Monk  in  Twenty  Years  After)  was  his  last 
deed  on  Dutch  soil,  Thenceforward  he  lived  iu  Paris  and 


56 


TROMFS  BROOM 


Sweden,  England  and  Germany,  writing  his  De  Jure  Belli 
et  Pacts  and  other  works.  He  died  in  1645,  when  Holland 
claimed  him  again,  as  Oxford  has  claimed  Shelley. 

The  principal  tomb  in  the  Old  Church  of  Delft  is  that 
of  Admiral  Tromp,  the  Dutch  Nelson.  While  quite  a 
child  he  was  at  sea  with  his  father  off  the  coast  of  Guinea 
when  an  English  cruiser  captured  the  vessel  and  made  him 
a cabin  boy.  Tromp,  if  he  felt  any  resentment,  certainly 
lived  to  pay  it  back,  for  he  was  our  victor  in  thirty-three 
naval  engagements,  the  last  being  the  final  struggle  in  the 
English-Dutch  war,  when  he  defeated  Monk  off  Texel  in 
the  summer  of  1653,  and  was  killed  by  a bullet  in  his 
heart.  The  battle  is  depicted  in  bas-relief  on  the  tomb, 
but  the  eye  searches  the  marble  in  vain  for  any  reminder 
of  the  broom  which  the  admiral  is  said  to  have  lashed  to 
his  masthead  as  a sign  to  the  English  that  it  was  his 
habit  to  sweep  their  seas.  The  story  may  be  a myth,  but 
the  Dutch  sculptor  who  omitted  to  remember  it  and  believe 
in  it  is  no  friend  of  mine. 

This  is  D.  Goslings’  translation  of  Tromp’s  epitaph  : — 
For  an  Eternal  Memorial 

You,  who  love  the  Dutch,  virtue  and  true  labour,  read  and  mourn. 

The  ornament  of  the  Dutch  people,  the  formidable  in  battle,  lies  low, 
he  who  never  lay  down  in  his  life,  and  taught  by  his  example  that  a 
commander  should  die  standing,  he,  the  love  of  his  fellow-citizens,  the 
terror  of  his  enemies,  the  wonder  of  the  ocean. 

Maarten  Harpertszoon  Tromp,  a name  comprehending  more  praise 
than  this  stone  can  contain,  a stone  truly  too  narrow  for  him,  for  whom 
East  and  West  were  a school,  the  sea  the  occasion  of  triumph,  the  whole 
world  the  scene  of  his  glory,  he,  a certain  ruin  to  pirates,  the  successful 
protector  of  commerce ; useful  through  his  familiarity,  not  low ; after 
having  ruled  the  sailors  and  the  soldiers,  a rough  sort  of  people,  in  a 
fatherly  and  efficaciously  benignant  manner  ; after  fifty  battles  in  which 
he  was  commander  or  in  which  he  played  a great  part ; after  incredible 
victories^  after  the  highest  honours  though  below  his  merits,  he  at  last 


TWO  EPITAPHS 


57 


in  the  war  against  the  English,  nearly  victor  but  certainly  not  beaten, 
on  the  loth  of  August,  1653,  of  the  Christian  era,  at  the  age  of  fifty-six 
years,  has  ceased  to  live  and  to  conquer. 

The  fathers  of  the  United  Netherlands  have  erected  this  memorial  in 
honour  of  this  highly  meritorious  hero. 

There  lie  in  DelfPs  Old  Church  also  Pieter  Pieterzoon 
Hein,  Lieut. -Admiral  of  Holland ; and  Elizabeth  van 
Marnix,  wife  of  the  governor  of  Bergen-op-Zoom,  whose 
epitaph  runs  thus  : — 

Here  am  I lying,  I Elizabeth,  born  of  an  illustrious  and  ancient 
family,  wife  to  Morgan,  I,  daughter  of  Marnix,  a name  not  unknown  in 
the  world,  which,  in  spite  of  time,  will  always  remain.  There  is  virtue 
enough  in  having  pleased  one  husband,  which  his  so  precious  love  testi- 
fies. 

The  tomb  of  Antony  van  Leeuwenhoek^  Ihe  inventoi;  of 
the-Jiiicro scope,  is  also  to  be  seen  in  the  church.  ^‘As 
everybody,  O Wanderer,”  the  epitaph  concludes,  “ has  re- 
spect for  old  age  and  wonderful  parts,  tread  this  spot 
with  respect ; here  grey  science  lies  buried  with  Le^aiwen- 
hock.” 

Each  of  the  little  guide-books,  which  are  given  to  every 
purchaser  of  a ticket  to  enter  the  churches,  is  prefaced  by 
four  Remarks,”  of  which  I quote  the  third  and  fourth : — 

3.  Visitors  are  requested  not  to  bestow  gifts  on  the  sexton  or  his 
assistants,  as  the  former  would  lose  his  situation,  if  he  accepted ; he  is 
responsible  for  his  assistants. 

4.  The  sexton  or  his  assistants  will  treat  the  visitors  with  the  greatest 
politeness. 

I am  not  certain  about  the  truth  of  either  of  these  clauses, 
particularly  the  last.  Let  me  explain. 

The  sexton  of  the  Old  Church  hurried  me  past  these 
tombs  with  some  impatience.  I should  naturally  have 
taken  my  time,  but  his  attitude  of  haste  made  it  im- 
perative to  do  so.  Se^^tons  miist  not  be  in  a hurry.  After 


58 


THE  SEXTON’S  PIPE 


a while  I found  out  why  he  chafed  : he  wanted  to  smoke. 
He  fumbled  his  pipe  and  scraped  his  boots  upon  the  stones. 
I studied  the  monuments  with  a scrutiny  that  grew  more 
and  more  minute  and  elaborate;  and  soon  his  matches 
were  in  his  hand.  I wanted  to  tell  him  that  if  I were  the 
only  obstacle  he  might  smoke  to  his  heart’s  content,  but 
it  seemed  to  be  more  amusing  to  watch  and  wait.  My 
return  to  the  tomb  of  the  ingenious  constructor  of  the 
microscope  settled  the  question.  Probably  no  one  had 
ever  spent  more  than  half  a minute  on  poor  Leeuwenhoek 
before;  and  when  I turned  round  again  the  pipe  was 
alight.  The  sexton  also  was  a changed  man  : before,  he 
had  been  taciturn,  contemptuous ; now  he  was  communi- 
cative, gay.  He  told  me  that  the  organist  was  blind — 
but  none  the  less  a fine  player ; he  led  me  briskly  to  the 
carved  pulpit  and  pointed  out,  with  some  exaltation,  the 
figure  of^Satan  with  his  legs  bound.  The  cincture  seemed 
to  give  him  a sense  of  security. 

In  several  ways  he  made  it  impossible  for  me  to  avoid 
disregarding  Clause  3 in  the  little  guide-books ; but  I feel 
quite  sure  that  he  has  notin  consequence  lost  his  situation. 

Delft’s  greatest  painter  was  Johannes  Vermeer,  known 
as  Vermeer  of  Delft,  of  whom  I shall  have  much  to  say  both 
at  the  Hague  and  Amsterdam.  He  was  born  at  Delft  in 
1632,  he  died  there  in  1675 ; and  of  him  but  little  more 
is  known.  It  has  been  said  that  he  studied  under  Karel 
Fabritius  (also  of  Delft),  but  if  this  is  so  the  term  of  pupil- 
age must  have  been  very  brief,  for  Fabritius  did  not  reach 
Delft  (from  Rembrandt’s  studio)  until  1652,  when  Vermeer 
was  twenty,  and  he  was  killed  in  an  explosion  in  1654. 
One  sees  the  influence  of  Fabritius,  if  at  all,  most  strongly 
in  the  beautiful  early  picture  at  The  Hague,  in  the  grave, 
grand  manner^  of  Diana,  but  the  influence  of  Italy  is  even 


% 


VIEW  OF  DELFT 

JAN  VERMEER 

From  the  picture  in  the  Mauritshtiis 


VERMEER  OF  DELFT 


59 


more  noticeable.  Fabritius’s  Siskin  ” is  hung  beneath  the 
new  GirFs  Head  by  Vermeer  (opposite  page  2 of  this  book), 
but  they  have  nothing  in  common.  To  see  how  Vermeer  de- 
rived from  Rembrandt  via  Fabritius  one  must  look  at  the 
fine  head  by  Fabritius  in  the  Boymans  Museum  at  Rotter- 
dam, so  long  attributed  to  Rembrandt,  but  possessing  a 
certain  radiance  foreign  to  him. 

How  many  pictures  Vermeer  painted  between  1653,  when 
he  was  admitted  to  the  Delft  Guild  as  a master,  and  1675, 
when  he  died,  cannot  now  be  said ; but  it  is  reasonable  to 
allot  to  each  of  those  twenty-three  years  at  least  five  works. 
As  the  known  pictures  of  Vermeer  are  very  few — fewer  than 
forty,  I believe — some  great  discoveries  may  be  in  store  for 
the  diligent,  or,  more  probably,  the  lucky. 

I have  read  somewhere — but  cannot  find  the  reference 
again — of  a ship  that  left  Holland  for  Russia  in  the 
seventeenth  century,  carrying  a number  of  paintings  by  the 
best  artists  of  that  day — particularly,  if  I remember, 
Gerard  Dou.  The  vessel  foundered  and  all  were  lost.  It 
is  possible  that  Vermeer  may  have  been  largely  represented. 

Only  comparatively  lately  has  fame  come  to  him,  his 
first  prophet  being  the  French  critic  Thore  (who  wrote  as 

W.  Burger  ”),  and  his  second  Mr.  Henri  Havard,  the 
author  of  very  pleasant  books  on  Holland  from  which  I 
shall  occasionally  quote.  Both  these  enthusiasts  wrote 
before  the  picture  opposite  page  2 was  exhibited,  or  their 
ecstasies  might  have  been  even  more  intense. 

In  the  Senate  House  at  Delft  in  1641  John  Evelyn  the 
diarist  saw  a mighty  vessel  of  wood,  not  unlike  a butter- 
churn,  which  the  adventurous  woman  that  hath  two  hus- 
bands at  one  time  is  to  wear  on  her  shoulders,  her  head 
peeping  out  at  the  top  only,  and  so  led  about  the  town, 
as  a penance  I did  not  see  this ; but  the  punishment 


60 


SIGN-BOARDS 


was  not  peculiar  to  Delft.  At  Nymwegen  these  wooden 
petticoats  were  famous  too. 

Nor  did  I visit  the  porcelain  factory,  having  very  little  . 
interest  in  its  modern  products.  But  the  old  Delft  ware 
no  one  can  admire  more  than  I do.  A history  of  Delft 
written  by  Dirk  van  Bleyswijck  and  published  in  1667, 
tells  us  that  the  rise  of  the  porcelain  industry  followed  the 
decline  of  brewing.  The  author  gives  with  tears  a list  of 
scores  of  breweries  that  ceased  to  exist  between  1600  and 
1640.  All  had  signs,  among  them  being  : — 


The  Popinjay. 

The  Great  Bell. 

The  White  Lily. 

The  Three  Herrings. 
The  Double  Battle-axe. 


The  Three  Acorns. 
The  Black  Unicorn. 
The  Three  Lilies. 

The  Curry-Comb. 

The  Three  Hammers. 


The  Double  Halberd. 


I would  rather  have  explored  any  of  those  breweries  than 
the  modern  Delft  factory.  . 

Ireland,  by  the  way,  mentions  a whimsical  sign-board 
which  he  saw  somewhere  in  Holland,  but  which  I regret 
to  say  I did  not  find.  It  was  a tree  bearing  fruit,  and  the 
branches  filled  with  little,  naked  urchins,  seemingly  just 
ripened  into  life,  and  crying  for  succour : beneath,  a woman 
holds  up  her  apron,  looking  wistfully  at  the  children,  as  if 
in  treating  them  to  jump  into  her  lap.  On  inquiry,  I found 
it  to  be  the  house  of  a sworn  midwife,  with  this  Dutch 
inscription  prefixed  to  her  name : — 

‘Vang  my,  ik  Zal  Zoot  Zyn,’ 

that  is,  ^ Catch  me,  Fll  be  a sweet  boy  This  new  mode 
of  procreation,  so  truly  whimsical,  pleased  me,”  Ireland  adds, 
not  a little.” 

I^et  me  close  this  chapter  by  quoting  from  an  essay  by  my 


THE  BELLS  OF  DELFT 


61 


friend,  Mr.  Belloc,  a lyrical  description  of  the  Old  Church’s 
wonderful  wealth  of  bells  : Thirdly,  the  very  structure  of 

the  thing  is  bells.  Here  the  bells  are  more  even  than  the 
soul  of  a Christian  spire ; they  are  its  body,  too,  its  whole 
self.  An  army  of  them  fills  up  all  the  space  between  the 
delicate  supports  and  framework  of  the  upper  parts.  For 
I know  not  how  many  feet,  in  order,  diminishing  in  actual 
size  and  in  the  perspective  also  of  that  triumphant  elevation, 
stand  ranks  on  ranks  of  bells  from  the  solemn  to  the  wild, 
from  the  large  to  the  small,  a hundred,  or  two  hundred  or 
a thousand.  There  is  here  the  prodigality  of  Brabant  and 
Hainaut  and  the  Batavian  blood,  a generosity  and  a pro- 
ductivity in  bells  without  stint,  the  man  who  designed  it 
saying : ^ Since  we  are  to  have  bells,  let  us  have  bells ; not 
measured  out,  calculated,  expensive,  and  prudent  bells, 
but  careless  bells,  self-answering  multitudinous  bells  ; bells 
without  fear,  bells  excessive  and  bells  innumerable  ; bells 
worthy  of  the  ecstacies  that  are  best  thrown  out  and 
published  in  the  clashing  of  bells.  For  bells  are  single, 
like  real  pleasures,  and  we  will  combine  such  a great 
number  that  they  may  be  like  the  happy  and  complex  life 
of  a man.  In  a word,  let  us  be  noble  and  scatter  our  bells 
and  reap  a harvest  till  our  town  is  famous  in  its  bells.’  So 
now  all  the  spire  is  more  than  clothed  with  them  ; they 
are  more  than  stuff  or  ornament : they  are  an  outer  and 
yet  sensitive  armour,  all  of  bells. 

Nor  is  the  wealth  of  these  bells  in  their  number  only, 
but  also  in  their  use — for  they  are  not  reserved  in  any  way, 
but  ring  tunes  and  add  harmonies  at  every  half  and  a 
quarter  and  at  all  the  hours  both  by  night  and  by  day. 
Nor  must  you  imagine  that  there  is  any  obsession  of  noise 
through  this ; they  are  far  too  high  and  melodious,  and 
(what  is  niore)  too  thoroughly  a part  of  all  the  spirit  of 


62 


THE  MUSIC  OP  THE  SPIRE 


Delft  to  be  more  than  a perpetual  and  half-forgotten  im- 
pression of  continual  music  ; they  render  its  air  sacred  and 
fill  it  with  something  so  akin  to  an  uplifted  silence  as  to 
leave  one — when  one  has  passed  from  their  influence — ask- 
ing what  balm  that  was  which  soothed  all  the  harshness 
of  sound  about  one.” 


CHAPTER  V 


-THE  HAGUE 

Dutch  precision — Shaping  hands — Nature  under  control — Willow  v, 
Neptune — The  lost  star — S’Gravenhage — The  Mauritshuis — Rem- 
brandt— The  “School  of  Anatomy” — Jan  Vermeer  of  Delft — The 
frontispiece — Other  pictures — The  Municipal  Museum — Baron  Steen- 
gracht’s  collection — The  Mesdag  treasures — French  romantics  at 
The  Hague — The  Binnenhof — John  van  Olden  Barneveldt — Man’s 
cruelty  to  man — The  churches — The  fish  market  and  first  taste  of 
Scheveningen — A crowded  street — Holland’s  reading — The  Bosch — 
The  club — The  House  in  the  Wood — Mr.  “ Secretary  ” Prior — Old 
marvels — Howell  the  receptive  and  Coryate  the  credulous. 

Although  often  akin  to  the  English,  the  Dutch 
character  differs  from  it  very  noticeably  in  the 
matter  of  precision.  The  Englishman  has  little  precision  ; 
the  Dutchman  has  too  much.  He  bends  everything  to  it. 
He  has  at  its  dictates  divided  his  whole  country  into 
parellelograms.  Even  the  rushes  in  his  swamps  are 
governed  by  the  same  law.  The  carelessness  of  nature  is 
offensive  to  him ; he  moulds  and  trains  on  every  hand,  as 
one  may  see  on  the  railway  journey  to  The  Hague.  Trees 
he  endures  only  so  long  as  they  are  obedient  and  equidist- 
ant: he  likes  them  in  avenues  or  straight  lines;  if  they 
grow  otherwise  they  must  be  pollarded.  It  is  true  that 
he  has  not  touched  the  Bosch,  at  The  Hague ; but  since 
his  hands  perforce  have  been  kept  off  its  trees,  he  has  run 
scores  of  formal  straight  well-gravelled  paths  beneath  their 
branches. 


(63) 


64  THE  DUTCHMAN’S  RESTRAINING  HAND 


This  passion  for  interference  grew  perhaps  from  exulta- 
tion upon  successful  dealings  with  the  sea.  A man  who 
by  his  own  efforts  can  live  in  security  below  sea-level,  and 
graze  cattle  luxuriantly  where  sand  and  pebbles  and  salt 
once  made  a desert,  has  perhaps  the  right  to  feel  that 
everything  in  nature  would  be  the  better  for  a little  manipu- 
lation. Eyes  accustomed  to  the  careless  profusion  that  one 
may  see  even  on  a short  railway  journey  in  England  are 
shocked  to  find  nature  so  tractable  both  in  land  and  water. 

The  Dutchman’s  pruning,  however,  is  not  done  solely 
for  the  satisfaction  of  exerting  control.  These  millions  of 
pollarded  willows  which  one  sees  from  the  line  have  a 
deeper  significance  than  might  ever  be  guessed  at : it  is  _ 
they  that  are  keeping  out  Holland’s  ancient  enemy,  the 
sea.  In  other  words,  a great  part  of  the  basis  of  the 
strength  of  the  dykes  is  imparted  by  interwoven  willow 
boughs,  which  are  constantly  being  renewed  under  the 
vigilant  eyes  of  the  dyke  inspectors.  For  the  rest,  the 
inveterate  trimming  of  trees  must  be  a comparatively 
modern  custom,  for  many  of  the  old  landscapes  depict 
careless  foliage — Koninck’s  particularly.  And  look,  for 
instance,  at  that  wonderful  picture — perhaps  the  finest 
landscape  in  Dutch  art — Rembrandt’s  etching  “ The  Three 
Trees”.  There  is  nothing  in  North  Holland  to-day  as 
unstudied  as  that.  I doubt  if  you  could  now  find  three 
trees  of  such  individuality  and  courage. 

When  I was  first  at  The  Hague,  seven  years  ago,  I 
stayed  not,  as  on  my  last  visit,  at  the  Oude  Doelen,  which 
is  the  most  comfortable  hotel  in  Holland,  but  at  a more 
retired  hostelry.  It  was  spacious  and  antiquated,  with 
large  empty  rooms,  and  cool  passages,  and  an  air  of  decay 
over  all.  Servants  one  never  saw,  nor  any  waiter  proper ; 
one’s  every  need  was  carried  out  by  a very  small  and  very 


THE  LOST  STAR 


65 


enthusiastic  boy.  ‘^Is  the  hroom  good,  sare.^^”  he  asked, 
as  he  flung  open  the  door  of  the  bedroom  with  a superb 
flourish.  Is  the  sham  good,  sare ” he  asked  as  he  laid 
a pot  of  preserve  on  the  table.  He  was  the  landlady’s  son 
or  grandson,  and  a better  boy  never  lived,  but  his  part, 
for  all  his  spirit  and  good  humour,  was  a tragic  one.  For 
the  greatest  misfortune  that  can  come  upon  an  hotel- 
keeper  had  crushed  this  house  : Baedeker  had  excised  their 
star ! 

The  landlady  moved  in  the  background,  a disconsolate 
figure  with  a grievance.  She  waylaid  us  as  we  went  out 
and  as  we  came  in.  Was  it  not  a good  hotel  Was  not 
the  management  excellent  ^ Had  we  any  complaints  ? 
And  yet — see — once  she  had  a star  and  now  it  was  gone. 
Could  we  not  help  to  regain  it  ? Here  was  the  secret  of 
the  grandson’s  splendid  zeal.  The  little  fellow  was  fight- 
ing to  hitch  the  old  hotel  to  a star  once  more,  as  Emerson 
had  bidden. 

Alas,  it  was  in  vain  ; for  that  was  seven  years  ago,  and 
I see  that  Baedeker  still  withholds  the  distinction.  What 
a variety  of  misfortune  this  little  world  holds ! While 
some  of  us  are  indulging  our  right  to  be  unhappy  over  a 
thousand  trivial  matters,  such  as  illness  and  disillusion, 
there  are  inn-keepers  on  the  Continent  who  are  staggering 
and  struggling  under  real  blows. 

I wondered  if  it  were  better  to  have  had  a star  and  lost 
it,  than  never  to  have  had  a star  at  all.  But  I did  not 
ask.  The  old  lady’s  grief  was  too  poignant,  her  mind  too 
practical,  for  such  questions, 

S’Gravenhage  or  Den  Haag,  or  The  Hague  as  we  call  it 
being  the  seat  of  the  court,  is  at  once  the  most  civilised 
and  most  expensive  of  the  Dutch  cities.  But  it  is  not 
conspic\3ously  Dutch,  and  is  interesting  rather  for  its 


66 


THE  VYVER 


pictures  and  for  its  score  of  historic  buildings  about  the 
Vyver  than  for  itself  Take  away  the  Vyver  and  its  sur- 
rounding treasures  and  a not  very  noteworthy  European 
town  would  remain. 

And  yet  to  say  so  hardly  does  justice  to  this  city,  for 
it  has  a character  of- its  own  that  renders  it  unique: 
cosmopolitan  and  elegant ; catholic  in  its  tastes ; indulgent 
to  strangers ; aristocratic  ; well -spaced  and  well  built ; 
above  all  things,  bland. 

And  the  Vyver  is  a jewel  set  in  its  midst,  beautiful  by 
day  and  beautiful  by  might,  with  fascinating  reflections  in 
it  at  both  times,  and  a special  gift  for  the  transmission  of 
bells  in  a country  where  bells  are  really  honoured.  On 
its  north  side  is  the  Vyverberg  with  pleasant  trees  and  a 
row  of  spacious  and  perfectly  self-composed  white  houses, 
one  of  which,  at  the  corner,  has  in  its  windows  the  most 
exquisite  long  lace  curtains  in  this  country  of  exquisite 
long  lace  curtains. 

On  the  south  side  are  the  Binnenhof  and  the  Maurits- 
huis — in  the  Mauritshuis  being  the  finest  works  of  the 
two  greatest  Dutch  painters,  Rembrandt  of  the  Rhine 
and  Vermeer  of  Delft.  It  is  largely  by  these  possessions 
that  The  Hague  holds  her  place  as  a city  of  distinction. 

Rembrandt’s  School  of  Anatomy  ” and  Paul  Potter’s 

Bull  ” are  the  two  pictures  by  which  every  one  knows  the 
Mauritshuis  collection ; and  it  is  the  bull  which  maintains 
the  steadier-and  larger  crowd.  But  it  is  not  a work  that 
interests  me.  My  pictures  in  the  Mauritshuis  are  above 
all  the  ‘‘  School  of  Anatomy,”  Vermeer’s  “ View  of  Delft,” 
his  head  of  a young  girl,  and  the  Jan  Steens.  We  have 
magnificent  Rembrandts  in  London  ; but  we  have  nothing 
quite  on  the  same  plane  of  interest  or  mastery  as  the 

School  of  Anatomy  ”.  Holland  has  not  always  retained 


■ 

""t  - 


THE  SCHOOL  OF  ANATOMY 


r 


^‘THE  SCHOOL  OF  ANATOMY” 


67 


her  artists’  best,  but  in  the  case  of  Rembrandt  and 
Hals,  Jan  Steen  and  Vermeer,  she  has  made  no  mistakes. 
Rembrandt's  ‘‘School  of  Anatomy,”  his  “ Night  Watch,” 
and  his  portrait  of  Elizabeth  Bas  are  all  in  Holland.  I 
can  remember  no  landscape  in  Holland  in  the  manner  of 
that  in  our  National  Gallery  in  which,  in  conformity  with 
the  taste  of  certain  picture  buyers,  he  dropped  in  an  in- 
essential Tobias  and  Angel ; but  for  the  finest  examples 
of  his  distinction  and  power  as  a painter  of  men  one  must 
go  to  The  Hague  and  Amsterdam.  In  the  Mauritshuis 
are  sixteen  Rembrandts,  including  the  portrait  of  himself 
in  a steel  casque,  and  (one  of  my  favourites)  the  head  of 
the  demure  nun-like  and  yet  merry-hearted  Dutch  maiden 
reproduced  opposite  the  next  page,  which  it  is  impossible 
to  forget  and  yet  difficult,  when  not  looking  at  it,  toi^call 
with  any  distinctness — as  is  so  often  the  case  with  one’s 
friends  in  real  life. 

If  any  large  number  of  visitors  to  Holland  taken  at 
random  were  asked  to  name  the  best  of  Rembrandt’s 
pictures  they  would  probably  say  the  “ Night  Watch 
But  I fancy  that  a finer  quality  went  to  the  making  of  the 
“ School  of  Anatomy  ”.  I fancy  that  the  “ School  of  Ana- 
tomy” is  the  greatest  work  of  art  produced  by  northern 
Europe. 

To  Jan  Steen  and  his  work  we  come  later,  in  the  chapter 
on  Leyden,  but  of  Vermeer,  whom  we  saw  at  Delft,  this  is 
one  place  to  speak.  Of  the  “ View  of  Delft  ” there  is  a 
reproduction  opposite  page  58,  yet  it  can  convey  but 
little  suggestion  of  its  beauty.  In  the  case  of  the  picture 
opposite  page  2 there  is  only  a loss  of  colour : a gi*eat  part 
of  its  beauty  is  retained  ; but  the  “ View  of  Delft  ” 
must  be  seen  in  the  original  before  one  can  speak  of  it  at 
all.  Its  appeal  is  moi'e  intimate  than  any  other  old  Dutch 


68 


OF  THE  FRONTISPIECE 


landscape  that  I know.  I say  old,  because  modern  painters 
have  a few  scenes  which  soothe  one  hardly  less — two  or 
three  of  Matthew  Maris’s,  and  Mauve^s  again  and  again. 
But  before  Maris  and  Mauve  came  the  Barbizon  influence ; 
whereas  Vermeer  had  no  predecessors,  he  had  to  find  his 
delicate  path  for  himself.  To  explain  the  charm  of  the 
^^View  of  Delft’’  is  beyond  my  power;  but  there  it  is. 
Before  Rembrandt  one  stands  awed,  in  the  presence  of  an 
ancient  giant ; before  Vermeer  one  rejoices,  as  in  the  pre- 
sence of  a friend  and  contemporary. 

The  head  of  a young  girl,  from  the  same  brush,  which  ~ 
was  left  to  the  nation  as  recently  as  1903,  is  reproduced 
opposite  page  2.  To  me  it  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
things  in  Holland.  It  is,  however,  in  no  sense  Dutch : 
the  girl  is  not  Dutch,  the  painting  is  Dutch  only  be- 
cause it  is  the  work  of  a Dutchman.  No  other  Dutch 
painter  could  compass  such  liquid  clarity,  such  cool  sur- 
faces. Indeed,  none  of  the  others  seem  to  have  tried  : 
a different  ideal  was  theirs.  Apart,  however,  from  the 
question  of  technique,  upon  which  I am  not  entitled  to 
speak,  the  picture  has  to  me  human  interest  beyond  de- 
scription. There  is  a winning  charm  in  this  simple  Eastern 
face  that  no  words  of  mine  can  express.  All  that  is  hard 
in  the  Dutch  nature  dissolves  beneath  her  reluctant  smile. 
She  symbolises  the  fairest  and  sweetest  things  in  the 
Eleven  Provinces.  She  makes  Holland  sacred  ground. 

Vermeer,  although  always  a superb  craftsman,  was  not 
always  inspired.  In  the  next  room  to  the  View  of  Delft  ” 
and  the  girl's  head  is  his  New  Testament  Allegory,”  a 
picture  which  I think  I dislike  more  than  any  other,  so 
Mse  seems  to  me  its  sentiment  and  so  unattractive  its 
character.  Yet  the  sheer  painting  of  it  is  little  short  of 
miraculous. 


A YOUNG  WOMAN 
REMBRANDT 

From  the  picture  in  the  Matiritshuis 


BOSBOOM 


69 


Among  other  Dutch  pictures  in  the  Mauritshuis  which 
I should  like  to  mention  for  their  particular  charm  are 
Gerard  Dou’s  Young  Housekeeper/’  to  which  we  come 
in  the  chapter  on  Leyden’s  painters ; Ostade’s  Proposal,” 
one  of  the  pleasantest  pictures  which  he  ever  signed ; 
Ruisdael’s  ‘^View  of  Haarlem”  and  Terburg’s  portraits. 
I single  these  out.  But  when  I think  of  the  marvels  of 
painting  that  remain,  of  which  I have  said  not  a word,  I 
am  only  too  conscious  of  the  uselessness  of  such  a list. 
Were  this  a guide-book  I should  say  more,  mentioning  also 
the  work  of  the  other  schools,  not  Dutch,  notably  a head  of 
Jane  Seymour  by  Holbein,  a Velasquez,  and  so  forth.  But 
I must  not. 

After  the  Mauritshuis,  the  Municipal  Museum,  which 
also  overlooks  the  Vyver’s  placid  surface,  is  a dull  place 
except  for  the  antiquary.  In  its  old  views  of  the  city, 
which  are  among  its  most  interesting  possessions,  the  evo- 
lution of  the  neighbouring  Doelen  hotel  may  be  studied  by 
the  curious — from  its  earliest  days,  when  it  was  a shoot- 
ing gallery,  to  its  present  state  of  spaciousness  and  repute, 
basking  in  its  prosperity  and  cherishing  the  proud  know- 
ledge that  Peter  the  Great  has  slept  under  its  hospitable 
roof,  and  that  it  was  there  that  the  Russian  delegate  re- 
sided when,  in  1900,  the  Czar  convoked  at  The  Hague  the 
Peace  Conference  which  he  was  the  first  to  break. 

In  one  room  of  the  Municipal  Museum  are  the  palette 
and  easel  of  Johannes  Bosboom,  Holland’s  great  painter 
of  churches.  His  last  unfinished  sketch  rests  on  the  easel. 
No  collection  of  modern  Dutch  art  is  complete  without  a 
sombre  study  of  Gothk  arches  by  this  great  artist.  All  his 
work  is  good,  but  I saw  nothing  better  than  the  water- 
colour drawing  in  the  Boymans  Museum  at  Rotterdam, 
which  is  reproduced  opposite  page  132. 


70 


THE  MESDAG  MUSEUM 


At  The  Hague  one  may  also  see,  whenever  the  family  is 
not  in  residence,  the  collection  of  Baron  Steengracht  in 
one  of  the  ample  white  mansions  on  the  Vyverberg.  Most 
interesting  of  the  pictures  to  me  are  Jan  Steen’s  family 
group,  which,  however,  for  all  its  wonderful  drawing,  is 
not  in  his  most  interesting  manner;  a very  deft  Metsu, 

The  Sick  Child  ” ; a horse  by  Albert  Cuyp ; a character- 
istic group  of  convivial  artists  by  Adrian  Brouwer,  includ- 
ing Hals,  Ostade,  Jan  Steen  and  the  painter  himself;  and 
— best  of  all — Terburg’s  wholly  charming  Toilette,”  an 
old  woman  combing  the  head  of  a child. 

Quite  recently  the  Mesdag  Museum  has  been  added  to 
the  public  exhibitions  of  The  Hague.  This  is  the  house  of 
Hendriks  Willem  Mesdag,  the  artist,  which,  with  all  its 
Barbizon  treasures,  with  noble  generosity  he  has  made 
over  to  the  nation  in  his  lifetime.  Mesdag,  who  is  himself 
one  of  the  first  of  living  Dutch  painters,  has  been  acquir- 
ing pictures  for  many  years,  and  his  collection,  by  repre- 
senting in  every  example  the  taste  of  a single  connoisseur, 
has  thus  the  additional  .interest  of  unity.  Mesdag’s  own 
paintings  are  mostly  of  the  sea — a grey  sea  with  a few  fish- 
ing boats,  very  true,  very  quiet  and  simple.  How  many 
times  he  and  James  Maris  painted  Scheveningen’s  shore 
probably  no  one  could  compute.  His  best-known  work 
is  probably  the  poster  advertising  the  Harwich  and  Hook- 
of-Holland  route,  in  which  the  two  ports  are  joined  by  a 
chain  crossing  a grey  sea — best  known,  because  every  one 
has  seen  this  picture : it  is  at  all  the  stations ; although 
few,  I imagine,  have  connected  with  it  the  name  and  fame 
of  the  Dutch  artist  and  patron  of  the  arts. 

In  the  description  of  the  Ryks  collection  at  Amsterdam 
I shall  say  something  about  the  pleasure  of  choosing  one’s 
own  particular  picture  from  a gallery.  It  was  amusing  to 


COROT  AND  DIAZ 


71 


indulge  the  same  humour  in  the  Mesdag  Museum  : per- 
haps even  more  so  than  at  the  Ryks,  for  one  is  certain  that 
by  no  means  could  Vermeer’s  little  picture  of ‘‘The  Reader,” 
— the  woman  in  the  blue  jacket — for  example,  be  abstracted 
from  those  well-guarded  walls,  whereas  it  is  just  conceiv- 
able that  one  could  select  from  these  crowded  little  Mesdag 
rooms  something  that  might  not  be  missed.  I hesitated 
long  between  a delicate  Matthew  Maris,  the  very  essence 
of  quietude,  in  which  a girl  stands  by  a stove,  cooking; 
Delacroix’s  wonderful  study  of  dead  horses  in  the  desert ; 
a perfect  Diaz  (No.  114),  an  old  woman  in  a red  shawl  by 
a pool  in  a wood,  with  its  miracle  of  lighting ; a tender 
little  Daumier,  that  rare  master ; a Segantini  drenched  in 
sincerity  and  pity ; and  a bridge  at  evening  (No.  127)  by 
Jules  Dupre.  All  these  are  small  and  could  be  slipped 
under  the  overcoat  with  the  greatest  ease ! 

Having  made  up  my  mind  I returned  to  each  and 
lost  all  my  decision.  I decided  again,  and  again  un- 
certainty conquered.  And  then  I made  a final  examina-, 
tion,  and  chose  No.  64 — a totally  new  choice — a little 
lovely  Corot,  depicting  a stream,  two  women,  much 
essential  greenness,  and  that  liquid  light  of  which  Corot 
had  the  secret. 

But  I am  not  sure  that  the  Diaz  (who  began  by  being 
an  old  master)  is  not  the  more  exquisite  picture. 

For  the  rest,  there  are  other  Corots,  among  them  one 
of  his  black  night  pieces ; a little  village  scene  by  Troyon  ; 
some  apples  by  Courbet,  in  the  grandest  manner  surely  in 
which  apples-  ever  were  painted ; a Monticelli ; a scene  of 
hills  by  Georges  Michel  which  makes  one  wish  he  had 
painted  the  Sussex  Downs ; a beautiful  chalk  drawing  by 
Millet ; some  vast  silent  Daubignys ; a few  Mauves  ; a 
very  interesting  early  Jamejs  Maris  in  the  manner  of  Peter 


n The  binnenhoe 

de  Hooch,  and  a superb  later  James  Maris — wet  sand 
and  a windy  sky. 

The  flower  of  the  French  romantic  school  is  represented 
here,  brought  together  by  a collector  with  a sure  eye.  No 
visitor  to  The  Hague  who  cares  anything  for  painting  should 
miss  it ; and  indeed  no  visitor  who  cares  nothing  for  painting 
should  miss  it,  for  it  may  lure  him  to  wiser  ways. 

The  Binnenhof  is  a mass  of  medieval  and  later  buildings 
extending  along  the  south  side  of  the  Vyver,  which  was 
indeed  once  a part  of  its  moat.  The  most  attractive  view 
of  it  is  from  the  north  side  of  the  Vyver,  with  the  long 
broken  line  of  roof  and  gable  and  tun*et  reflected  in  the 
water.  The  nucleus  of  the  Binnenhof  was  the  castle  or 
palace  of  William  II.,  Count  of  Holland  in  the  thirteenth 
century — also  Emperor  of  Germany  and  father  of  Florence 
V.,  who  built  the  great  hall  of  the  knights  (into  which, 
however,  one  may  penetrate  only  on  Thursdays),  and  whose 
tomb  we  shall  see  in  Alkmaar  church.  The  Stadtholders 
made  the  Binnenhof  their  headquarters ; but  the  present 
Royal  Palace  is  half  a mile  north-west  of  it.  Other  build- 
ings have  been  added  from  time  to  time,  and  the  trams  are 
now  allowed  to  rush  through  with  their  bells  jangling  the 
while.  The  desecration  is  not  so  glaring  as  at  Utrecht,  but 
it  seems  thoroughly  wrong — as  though  we  were  to  permit 
a line  to  traverse  Dean’s  Yard  at  Westminster.  A more 
appropriate  sanction  is  that  extended  to  one  or  two 
dealers  in  old  books  and  prints  who  have  their  stalls  in 
the  Binnenhofs  cloisters. 

It  was  in  the  Binnenhof  that  the  scaffold  stood  on  which 
John  van  Barneveldt  was  beheaded  in  161 9,  the  almost  inevit- 
able result  of  his  long  period  of  differences  with  the  Stadt- 
holder  Maurice,  son  of  William  the  Silent.  His  arrest,  as 
we  have  seen,  followed  the  Synod  of  Dort,  Grotius  being  also 


BARNEVELDT’S  ene 


73 


removed  by  force.  Barneveldt's  imprisotiftlfelit,  trial  and 
execution  resemble  Spanish  methods  of  injustice  more 
closely  than  one  likes  to  think.  I quote  Davies’  fine  ac- 
count of  the  old  statesman’s  last  moments : Leaning  on 

his  staff,  and  with  his  servant  on  the  other  side  to  support 
his  steps,  grown  feeble  with  age,  Barneveldt  walked  com- 
posedly to  the  place  of  execution,  prepared  before  the  great 
saloon  of  the  court-house.  If,  as  it  is  not  improbable,  at 
the  approach  of  death  in  the  midst  of  life  and  health,  when 
the  intellect  is  in  full  vigour,  and  every  nerve,  sense  and 
fibre  is  strung  to  the  highest  pitch  of  tension,  a foretaste 
of  that  which  is  to  come  is  sometimes  given  to  man,  and 
his  over-wrought  mind  is  enabled  to  grasp  at  one  single 
effort  the  events  of  his  whole  past  life — if,  at  this  moment 
and  on  this  spot,  where  Barneveldt  was  now  to  suffer  a 
felon’s  death, — where  he  had  first  held  out  his  fostering 
hand  to  the  infant  republic,  and  infused  into  it  strength 
and  vigour  to  conquer  the  giant  of  Europe, — where  he  had 
been  humbly  sued  for  peace  by  the  oppressor  of  his  country, 
— where  the  ambassadors  of  the  most  powerful  sovereigns 
had  vied  with  each  other  in  soliciting  his  favour  and  sup- 
port,— where  the  wise,  the  eloquent,  and  the  learned,  had 
bowed  in  deference  to  his  master-spirit ; — if,  at  this  moment, 
the  memory  of  all  his  long  and  glorious  career  on  earth 
flashed  upon  his  mind  in  fearful  contrast  to  the  present 
reality,  with  how  deep  feeling  must  he  have  uttered  the 
exclamation  as  he  ascended  the  scaffold,  ^Oh  God!  what 
then  is  man  ? ’ 

Here  he  was  compelled  to  suffer  the  last  petty  indignity 
that  man  could  heap  upon  him.  Aged  and  infirm  as  he 
was,  neither  stool  nor  cushion  had  been  provided  to 
mitigate  the  sense  of  bodily  weakness  as  he  performed  the 
last  duties  of  mortal  life ; and  kneeling  down  on  the  bare 


n 


A NOBLE  WIDOW 


boards,  he  was  supported  by  his  servant,  while  the  minister, 
John  Lamotius,  delivered  a prayer.  When  prepared  for 
the  block,  he  turned  to  the  spectators  and  said,  with  a 
loud  and  firm  voice,  ^ My  friends,  believe  not  that  I am  a 
traitor.  I have  lived  a good  patriot,  and  such  I die  \ He 
then,  with  his  own  hands,  drew  his  cap  over  his  eyes,  and  ^ 
bidding  the  executioner  ^be  quick,’  bowed  his  venerable 
head  to  the  stroke. 

The  populace,  fx^om  various  feelings,  some  inspired  by 
hatred,  some  by  affection,  dipped  their  handkerchiefs  in  his 
blood,  or  carried  away  morsels  of  the  blood-stained  wood 
and  sand ; a few  were  even  found  to  sell  these  as  relics.  The 
body  and  head  were  laid  in  a coffin  and  buried  decently, 
but  with  little  ceremony,  at  the  eoui’t  church  of  the  Hague. 

‘^The  States  of  Holland  rendered  to  his  memory  that 
justice  which  he  had  been  denied  while  living,  by  the  words 
in  which  they  recorded  his  death.  After  stating  the  time 
and  manner  of  it,  and  his  long  period  of  service  to  his 
country,  the  resolution  concludes,  ‘ a man  of  great  activity, 
diligence,  memory,  and  conduct;  yea,  remarkable  in  every 
respect.  Let  him  that  thinketh  he  standeth  take  heed  lest 
he  fall ; and  may  God  be  merciful  to  his  soul.’  ” 

A very  beautiful  story  is  told  of  Barneveldt’s  widow. 
Her  son  plotting  to  avenge  his  father  and  crush  the 
Stadtholder  was  discovered  and  imprisoned.  His  mother 
visited  Maurice  to  ask  his  pardon.  Why,”  said  he,  “ how 
is  this— you  value  your  son  more  than  your  husband  ! You 
did  not  ask  pardon  for  him.”  ^^No,”  said  Barneveldt’s 
widow ; I did  not  ask  pardon  for  my  husband,  because 
he  was  innocent ; I ask  pardon  for  my  son,  because  he  is 
guilty.” 

Prince  Maurice  never  recovered  from  the  error — to  put 
for  the  moment  no  worse  epithet  to  it — of  the  death  of 


From  the pichire  in  the  Mau7-itshtiis 


MORE  ILLUSTRIOUS  BLOOD 


75 


Barneveldt.  He  had  killed  his  best  counsellor ; thence- 
forward his  power  diminished  ; and  with  every  rebuff’  he  who 
had  abandoned  his  first  adviser  complained  that  God  had 
abandoned  him.  Davies  sums  up  the  case  thus : The 

escutcheon  of  Maurice  is  bright  with  the  record  of  many 
a deed  of  glory;  the  fabric  of  his  country’s  greatness 
raised  by  his  father,  strengthened  and  beautified  by  him- 
self ; her  armies  created  the  masters  of  military  science  to 
the  civilized  world  ; her  States  the  centre  and  mainspring  of 
its  negotiations  ; her  proud  foe  reduced  to  sue  humbly  at  her 
feet.  But  there  is  one  dark,  deep  stain  on  which  the  eye 
of  posterity,  unheeding  the  surrounding  radiance,  is  con- 
stantly fixed  : it  is  the  blood  of  Barneveldt.” 

The  Binnenhof  leads  to  the  Buitenhof,  a large  open 
space,  the  old  gateway  to  which  is  the  Gevangenpoort 
prison — scene  of  another  shameful  deed  in  the  history  of 
Holland,  the  death  of  John  and  Cornelius  de  Witt.  The 
massacre  occurred  two  hundred  and  thirty-three  years  ago 
— in  1672.  Cornelius  de  Witt  was  wrongfully  accused  of 
an  attempt  to  procure  the  assassination  of  the  Stadtholder, 
William  III.  To  him,  in  his  cell  in  the  Gevangenpoort^ 
came,  on  22nd  August,  John  de  Witt,  late  Grand  Pension- 
ary, brought  hither  by  a bogus  message. 

I quote  from  Davies,  who  elsewhere  makes  it  clear  that 
(as  Dumas  says)  William  III.  was  privy  to  the  crime  : His 

friends,  fearful  of  some  treachery,  besought  him  to  pause 
and  inquire  into  the  truth  of  the  summons  before  he  obeyed 
it ; and  his  only  daughter  threw  herself  at  his  feet,  and 
implored  him  with  floods  of  tears  not  to  risk  unnecessarily 
a life  so  precious.  But  his  anxiety  for  his  brother,  with 
whom  he  had  ever  lived  on  terms  of  the  tenderest  affection, 
proved  stronger  than  their  remonstrances ; and  setting  out 
on  foot,  attended  by  his  servant  and  two  secretaries,  he 


76 


THE  ASSASSINATION 


hastened  to  the  prison.  On  seeing  him,  Cornelius  de  Witt 
exclaimed  in  astonishment,  ^ My  brother,  what  do  you 
here  ? ’ ‘ Did  vou  not  then  send  for  me  ? ’ he  asked  ; and 

receiving  an  answer  in  the  negative,  ^Then,’  rejoined  he, 
‘ we  are  lost  \ 

‘‘During  this  time  one  of  the  judges  sent  for  Tichelaar, 
and  suggested  to  him  that  he  should  incite  the  people  not 
to  suffer  a villain  who  had  intended  to  murder  the  Prince 
to  go  unpunished.  True  to  his  instructions,  the  miscreant 
spread  among  the  crowd  collected  before  the  prison  doors 
the  report,  that  the  torture  inflicted  on  Cornelius  de  Witt 
was  a mere  pretence,  and  that  he  had  only  escaped  the 
death  he  deserved  because  the  judges  favoured  his  crime. 
Then,  entering  the  gaol,  he  presented  himself  at  the 
window,  and  exclaimed  to  the  crowd  below,  ‘ The  dog  and 
his  brother  are  going  out  of  prison ! Now  is  your  time ; 
revenge  yourselves  on  these  two  knaves,  and  then  on  thirty 
more,  their  accomplices.’ 

“ The  populace  received  his  address  with  shouts  and  cries 
of  ‘ To  arms,  to  arms  ! Treason,  treason  ! ’ and  pressed  in 
a still  denser  crowd  towards  the  prison  door.  The  States 
of  Holland,  immediately  on  information  of  the  tumult, 
sent  three  troops  of  cavalry,  in  garrison  at  the  Hague,  for 
the  protection  of  the  gaol,  and  called  out  to  arms  six 
companies  of  burgher  guards.  But  in  the  latter  they  only 
added  fresh  hosts  to  the  enemies  of  the  unfortunate  captives. 
One  company  in  especial,  called  the  ‘ Company  of  the  Blue 
Flag,’  was  animated  with  a spirit  of  deadly  vengeance  against 
them ; its  leader,  Verhoef,  having  that  morning  loaded  his 
musket  with  a determination  either  to  kill  the  De  Witts 
or  perish  in  the  attempt.  They  pressed  forward  towards 
the  prison,  but  were  driven  back  by  the  determined  appear- 
ance of  the  cavalry,  commanded  by  the  Count  de  Tilly. 


OF  THE  DE  WITTS 


77 


“ So  long  as  these  troops  remained,  it  was  evident  that 
the  fell  purpose  of  the  rioters  was  impracticable.  Accord- 
ingly, a report  was  raised  that  a band  of  peasants  and 
sailors  was  coming  to  plunder  The  Hague ; and  two 
captains  of  the  burgher  guards  took  occasion  from  thence 
to  demand  of  the  Council  of  State,  that  the  soldiers  should 
be  drawn  off  from  their  station,  in  order  to  protect  the 
houses  from  pillage.  First  a verbal  order,  and  on  Tilly’s 
refusing  obedience  to  such,  a written  one,  was  sent,  com- 
manding him  to  divide  his  troops  into  four  detachments, 
and  post  them  upon  the  bridges  leading  into  the  town. 
‘ I shall  obey,’  said  he,  as  he  perused  the  mandate ; ^ but 
it  is  the  death-warrant  of  the  brothers.’ 

“His  anticipations  were  too  soon  realized.  No  sooner 
had  he  departed  than  the  rioters  were  supplied  by  some 
of  those  mysterious  agents  who  were  actively  employed 
throughout  the  whole  of  these  transactions,  with,  wine, 
brandy,  and  other  incitements  to  inflame  their  already 
maddening  fury.  Led  on  by  Verhoef  and  one  Van  Bank- 
hem,  a sheriff  of  The  Hague,  they  assailed  the  prison 
door  with  axes  and  sledge-hammers,  threatening  to  kill  all 
the  inmates  if  it  were  not  instantly  opened.  Terrified,  or 
corrupted,  the  gaoler  obeyed  their  behests.  On  gaining 
admittance  they  rushed  to  an  upper  room,  where  they  found 
their  victims,  who  had  throughout  the  whole  of  the  tumult 
maintained  the  greatest  composure.  The  bailiff,  reduced 
to  a state  of  extreme  debility  by  the  torture,  was  reclining 
on  his  bed;  his  brother  was  seated  near  him,  reading  the 
Bible.  They  forced  them  to  rise  and  follow  them  ^ to  the 
place,’  as  they  said,  ^ where  criminals  were  executed  ’, 

“ Having  taken  a tender  leave  of  each  other,  they  began 
to  descend  the  stab’s,  Cornelius  de  Witt  leaning  on  his 
brother  for  support.  They  had  not  advanced  above  twQ 


78 


THE  GEVANGENPOORT 


or  three  paces  when  a heavy  blow  on  the  head  from  be- 
hind precipitated  the  foi*mer  to  the  bottom.  He  was  then 
dragged  a short  distance  towards  the  street,  trampled 
under  foot,  and  beaten  to  death.  Meanwhile,  John  de 
Witt,  after  receiving  a severe  wound  on  the  head  with  the 
butt-end  of  a musket,  was  brought  by  Verhoef,  bleeding 
and  bare-headed,  before  the  furious  multitude.  One  Van  ' 
Soenen  immediately  thrust  a pike  into  his  face,  while  an- 
other of  the  miscreants  shot  him  in  the  neck,  exclaiming 
as  he  fell,  ^ There  goes  down  the  Perpetual  Edict  Raising 
himself  on  his  knees,  the  sufferer  lifted  up  his  hands  and 
eyes  to  heaven  in  deep  and  earnest  prayer.  At  that  moment, 
one  Verhagen  struck  him  with  his  musket.  Hundreds 
followed  his  example,  and  the  cruel  massacre  was  completed. 

Barbarities  too  dreadful  for  utterance  or  contemplation, 
all  that  phrenzied  passion  or  brutal  ferocity  could  suggest, 
were  perpetrated  on  the  bodies  of  these  noble  and  virtuous 
citizens ; nor  was  it  till  night  put  an  end  to  the  butchery, 
that  their  friends  were  permitted  to  convey  their  mangled 
remains  to  a secret  and  obscure  tomb.” 

In  the  Nieuwe  Kerk  at  The  Hague  the  tomb  of  the  De  . 
Witts  may  be  seen  and  honoured. 

The  Gevangenpoort  is  well  worth  a visit.  One  passes 
tortuously  from  cell  to  cell — most  of  them  associated  with 
some  famous  breaker  of  the  laws  of  God  or  man,  principally 
of  man.  Here  you  may  see  a stone  hollowed  by  the  drops 
of  water  that  plashed  from  the  prisonei’’s  head,  on  which 
they  were  timed  to  fall  at  intervals  of  a few  seconds — a form 
of  torture  imported,  I believe,  from  China,  and  after  some 
hours  ending  inevitably  in  madness  and  death.  Beside 
such  a refinement  the  rack  is  a mere  trifle  and  the  Gevangen- 
poorPs  branding  irons  and  thumb  screws  become  only  toys. 
A block,  retaining  the  cuts  made  by  the  axe  after  it  had 


CROWDS  OF  AN  EVENING 


79 


crashed  through  the  offending  neck,  is  also  shown ; and  the 
names  of  prisoners  written  in  their  blood  on  the  walls  may 
be  traced.  The  building  is  a monument  in  stone  of  what 
man  can  do  to  man  in  the  name  of  justice. 

I referred  just  now  to  the  Nieuwe  Kerk,  the  resting- 
place  of  the  De  Witts.  There  lies  also  their  contem- 
porary, Spinoza,  whose  home  at  Rynsburg  we  shall  pass 
on  our  way  to  Katwyk  from  Leyden.  His  house  at  The 
Hague  still  stands— near  his  statue.  The  Groote  Kerk 
is  older ; but  neither  church  is  particularly  interesting. 
From  the  Groote  Kerk’s  tower  one  may,  however,  see  a vast 
deal  of  country  around  The  Hague — a landscape  contain- 
ing much  greenery — and  in  the  west  the  architectural 
monsters  of  Scheveningen  only  too  visible.  We  shall 
reach  Scheveningen  in  the  next  chapter,  but  while  at  The 
Hague  it  is  amusing  to  visit  the  fish  market  in  order  to 
have  sight  of  the  good  women  of  that  town  clustered  about 
the  stalls  in  their  peculiar  costume.  They  are  Scheven- 
ingen’s  best.  The  adjoining  stadhuis  is  a very  interesting 
example  of  Dutch  architecture. 

The  Hague  has  excellent  shops,  and  one  street — the 
Lange  Pooten — more  crowded  in  the  evening,  particularly 
on  Sunday  evening,  than  any  I know.  Every  Dutch  town 
has  certain  crowded  streets  in  the  evening,  because  to  walk 
up  and  down  after  dinner  is  the  national  form  of  recrea- 
tion. There  are  in  the  large  cities  a few  theatres  and 
music  halls,  and  in  the  smaller,  concerts  in  the  summer ; 
but  for  the  most  part  the  streets  and  the  cafes  are  the 
great  attraction.  Each  town  has  one  street  above  all 
others  which  is  frequented  in  this  way.  At  The  Hague 
it  is  the  Lange  Pooten,  running  into  Spui  Straat ; at 
Amsterdam  it  is  Kalverstraat. 

Dutch  shops  are  not  very  interesting,  and  the  book-shops 


80 


ENGLISH  BOOKS  IN  DUTCH 


in  particular  are  a disappointment.  This  is  because  it  is 
not  a riding  people.  The  newspapers  are  sound  and 
practical  before  all  things  : business  before  pleasure  is  their 
motto  ; and  native  literature  is  not  fostered.  Publishers 
who  bring  out  new  Dutch  books  usually  do  so  on  the  old 
subscription  plan.  But  the  book-shops  testify  to  the  popu- 
larity of  translations  from  other  nations  and  also  of  foreigh 
books  in  the  original.  The  latest  French  and  German 
fiction  is  always  obtainable.  Among  translations  from  the 
English  in  1904  I noticed  a considerable  number  of  copies 
of  the  Sherlock  Holmes  tales  and  also  of  two  or  three 
of  Miss  Corellis  works.  These  for  adults ; for  boys  the 
reading  par  excellence  was  a serial  romance,  in  weekly  or 
monthly  parts,  entitled  De  Wilsons  en  de  Ring  des  Doods 
of  het  Spoor  van  pen  Diamenten  The  Wilsons,  I gather, 
have  been  having  a great  run  in  Holland.  A lurid  scene 
in  Maiden  Lane  was  on  the  cover.  Another  story  which 
seemed  to  be  popular  had  the  engaging  title  Beleaguered 
by  Jaguars 

The  Hague  is  very  proud  of  the  Bosch — ^the  great  wood 
to  the  east  of  the  city,  with  a few  deer  and  many  tall  and 
unpollarded  trees,  where  one  may  walk  and  ride  or  drive 
very  pleasantly. 

The  Bosch  has  no  restaurant  within  its  boundaries,  I 
mention  this  in  order  to  save  the  reader  the  mortification 
of  being  conducted  by  a polite  but  firm  waiter  back  to  the 
gates  of  the  pavilion  in  which  he  may  reasonably  have 
supposed  he  was  as  much  entitled  to  order  tea  as  any  of 
the  groups  enjoying  that  beverage  at  the  little  tables 
within  the  enclosure,  whose  happiness  had  indeed  led  him 
to  enter  it.  They  are,  however,  members  of  a club,  to  which 
he  has  no  more  right  of  entry  than  any  Dutch  stranger 
would  have  to  the  Athenaeum. 


THE  MENAGERIE 

JAN  STEEN 

I'rom  the  picttire  in  the  Mauritshuis 


THE  HOUSE  IN  THE  WOOD 


81 


The  Huis  ten  Bosch,  or  House  in  the  Wood,  which  all 
good  travellers  must  explore,  is  at  the  extreme  eastern  end 
of  the  Bosch,  with  pleasure  grounds  of  its  own,  including 
a lake  where  royal  skating  parties  are  held.  This  very 
charming  royal  residence,  now  only  occasionally  occupied, 
is  well  worth  seeing  for  its  Chinese  and  Japanese  decorations 
alone — apart  from  historical  associations  and  mural  paint- 
ings. For  mural  paintings  unless  they  are  very  quiet  I 
must  confess  to  caring  nothing,  nor  does  a bed  on  which  a 
temporal  prince  breathed  his  last,  or  his  first,  move  me  to 
any  degree  of  interest ; but  on  the  walls  of  one  room  of  the 
House  in  the  Wood  is  some  of  the  most  charming  Chinese 
embroidery  I ever  saw,  while  another  is  decorated  in  blue 
and  white  of  exquisite  delicacy.  With  these  gracious 
schemes  of  upholstery  I shall  always^  associate  the  Huis  ten 
Bosch. 

At  Leyden  we  shall  find  traces  of  Oliver  Goldsmith : 
here  at  The  Hague  one  may  think  of  Mat.  Prior,  who 
was  secretary  to  our  Ambassador  for  some  years  and  even 
wrote  a copy  of  spritely  verses  on  the  subject. 

THE  SECRETARY. 

Written  at  The  Hague^  i6g6. 

With  labour  assiduous  due  pleasure  1 mix, 

And  in  one  day  atone  for  the  bus’ness  of  six. 

In  a little  Dutch  chaise,  on  a Saturday  night, 

On  my  left  hand  my  Horace,  a nymph  on  my  right : 

No  memoirs  to  compose,  and  no  post-boy  to  move. 

That  on  Sunday  may  hinder  the  softness  of  love  ; 

For  her,  neither  visits,  nor  parties  at  tea. 

Nor  the  long-winded  cant  of  a dull  refugee : 

This  night  and  the  next  shall  be  hers,  shall  be  mine 
To  good  or  ill-fortune  the  third  we  resign. 

Thus  scorning  the  world,  and  superior  to  Fate, 

I drive  in  my  car  in  professional  state ; 

So  with  Phia  thro’  Athens  Pisistratus  rode, 

6 


82 


PRIOR  AND  HOWELL 


Men  thought  her  Minerva,  and  him  a new  god. 

But  why  should  I stories  of  Athens  rehearse, 

Where  people  knew  love,  and  were  partial  to  verse. 

Since  none  can  with  justice  my  pleasures  oppose 
In  Holland  half-drowned  in  int’rest  and  prose  ? 

By  Greece  and  past  ages  what  need  I be  tried 

When  The  Hague  and  the  present  are  both  on  my  side  ? 

And  is  it  enough  for  the  joys  of  the  day  , \ 

To  think  what  Anacreon  or  Sappho  would  say. 

When  good  Vandergoes  and  his  provident  Vrow, 

As  they  gaze  on  my  triumph,  do  freely  allow, 

That,  search  all  the  province,  you’ll  find  no  man  dar  is 
So  blest  as  the  Englishen  Heev  Secretar  is  ? 

Let  me  close  this  rambling  account  of  The  Hague  with 
a passage  from  James  Howell,  in  one  of  his  conspicuously 
elaborate  Familiar  Letters^  written  in  1622,  describing 
some  of  the  odd  things  to  be  seen  at  that  day  in  or  about 
the  Dutch  city:  ^^We  went  afterwards  to  the  Hague ^ 
where  there  are  hard  by,  though  in  several  places,  two 
wonderful  things  to  be  seen,  the  one  of  Art^  the  other  of 
Nature;  that  of  is  a Waggon  or  Ship,  or  a monster 
mixt  of  both  like  the  Hippocentaure  who  was  half  man  and 
half  horse ; this  Engin  hath  wheels  and  sails  that  will  hold 
above  twenty  people,  and  goes  with  the  wind,  being  drawn 
or  mov’d  by  nothing  else,  and  will  run,  the  wind  being  good, 
and  the  sails  hois’d  up,  above  fifteen  miles  an  hour  upon 
the  even  hard  sands  : they  say  this  Invention  was  found  out 
to  entertain  Spinola  when  he  came  thither  to  treat  of 
the  last  Truce.”  Upon  this  wonder,  which  I did  not  see, 
civilisation  has  now  improved,  the  wind  being  but  a captious 
and  untrustworthy  servant  compared  with  petrol  or  steam. 
None  the  less  there  is  still  a very  rapid  wheeled  ship  at 
Zandvoort. 

But  the  record  of  Howell’s  other  wonder  is  visible  still. 
He  continues : That  wonder  of  Nature  is  a Church- 


THREE  HUNDRED  AND  SIXTY-FIVE!  83 


monument,  where  an  Earl  and  a Lady  are  engraven  with 
365  children  about  them,  which  were  all  delivered  at  one 
birth  ; they  were  half  male,  half  female ; the  two  Basons  in 
which  they  were  Christened  hang  still  in  the  Church,  and 
the  Bishop’s  Name  who  did  it;  and  the  story  of  this 
Miracle,  with  the  year  and  the  day  of  the  month  mentioned, 
which  is  not  yet  200  years  ago ; and  the  story  is  this : 
That  the  Countess  walking  about  her  door  after  dinner, 
there  came  a Begger*woman  with  two  Children  upon 
her  back  to  beg  alms,  the  Countess  asking  whether  those 
children  were  her  own,  she  answer’d,  she  had  them  both 
at  one  birth,  and  by  one  Father,  who  was  her  husband. 
The  Countess  would  not  only  not  give  her  any  alms,  but 
reviled  her  bitterly,  saying,  it  was  impossible  for  one  man 
to  get  two  children  at  once.  The  Begger-woman  being 
thus  provok’d  with  ill  words,  and  without  alms,  fell  to 
imprecations,  that  it  should  please  God  to  show  His  judg- 
ment upon  her,  and  that  she  might  bear  at  one  birth  as 
many  children  as  there  be  days  in  the  year,  which  she  did 
before  the  same  year’s  end,  having  never  born  child  before.” 
The  legend  was  naturally  popular  in  a land  of  large 
families,  and  it  was  certainly  credited  without  any  reserva- 
tion for  many  years.  In  England  the  rabbit-breeding 
woman  of  Dorking  had  her  adherents  too.  What  the 
beggar  really  wished  for  the  Dutch  lady  was  as  many 
children  at  one  birth  as  there  were  days  in  the  year  in 
which  the  conversation  occuiTed — namely  three,  for  the 
encounter  was  on  January  3rd.  Or  so  I have  somewhere 
read.  But  it  is  more  amusing  to  believe  in  the  greater 
number,  especially  as  a Dutch  author  has  put  it  on  record 
that  he  saw  the  children  with  his  own  eyes.  They  were 
of  the  size  of  shrimps,  and  were  baptised  either  singly  or 
collectively  by  Guy,  Bishop  of  Utrecht.  All  the  boys  were 


84 


CORY ATE  THE  CREDULOUS 


named  John  and  all  the  girls  Elizabeth.  They  died  the 
same  day. 

Thomas  Coryate  of  the  Crudities^  who  also  tells  the  tale, 
believed  it  implicitly.  ^^This  strange  history,”  he  says, 
‘^will  seem  incredible  (I  suppose)  to  all  readers.  But  it 
is  so  absolutely  and  undoubtedly  true  as  nothing  in  the 
world  more.” 

And  here,  hand  in  hand  with  Veritas,  we  leave  The 
Hague. 


CHAPTER  VI 


SCHEVENINGEN  AND  KATWYK 


The  Dutch  heaven — Huyghens’  road — Sorgh  Vliet’s  builder — Jacob  Cats 
— Homely  wisdom — President  Kruger — A monstrous  resort— Giant 
snails— The  black-headed  mannikins — The  etiquette  of  petticoats 
— Katwyk — The  old  Rhine — Noordwyk — Noordwyk-Binnen. 


OOD  Dutchmen  when  they  die  go  to  Scheveningen  ; 


but  my  heaven  is  elsewhere.  To  go  thither  is, 
however,  no  calamity,  so  long  as  one  chooses  the  old  road. 
It  is  being  there  that  so  lowers  the  spirits.  The  Oude 
Scheveningen  Weg  is  perhaps  the  pleasantest,  and  certainly 
the  shadiest,  road  in  Holland  : not  one  avenue  but  many, 
straight  as  a line  in  Euclid.  On  either  side  is  a spreading 
wood,  among  the  trees  of  which,  on  the  left  hand,  as 
one  leaves  The  Hague,  is  Sorgh  Vliet,  once  the  retreat  of 
old  Jacob  Cats,  lately  one  of  the  residences  of  a royal 
Duke,  and  now  sold  to  a building  company.  The  road 
dates  from  1666,  its  projector  being  Constantin  Huyghens, 
poet  and  statesman,  whose  statue  may  be  seen  at  the  half- 
way halting-place.  By  the  time  this  is  reached  the  charm 
of  the  road  is  nearly  over : thenceforward  it  is  all  villas  and 
Scheveningen. 

But  we  must  pause  for  a little  while  at  Sorgh  Vliet 
(which  has  the  same  meaning  as  Sans  Souci\  where  two 
hundred  years  ago  lived  in  genial  retirement  the  writer 
who  best  represents  the  shrewd  sagacity  of  the  Dutch 


(85) 


86 


IDEAL  ILLUSTRATIONS 


character — Jacob  Cats,  or  Vader  Cats  as  he  was  affection- 
ately called,  the  author  of  the  Dutcli  Household  Bible,” 
a huge  miscellaneous  collection  of  wise  saws  and  modern 
instances,  humour  and  satire,  upon  all  the  businesses  of  life. 

Mr.  Austin  Dobson,  who  leaves  gi’ains  of  gold  on  all 
he  touches,  has  described  in  his  Side-Walk  Studies  the 
huge  illustrated  edition  of  Cats’  Works  (Amsterdam,  1655) 
which  is  held  sacred  in  all  rightly  constituted  old-fashioned 
Dutch  households.  I have  seen  it  at  the  British  Museum, 
and  it  seems  to  me  to  be  one  of  the  best  picture-books  in 
the  world. 

As  Mr.  Dobson  says,  the  life  of  old  Holland  is  repro- 
duced in  it.  What  would  one  not  give  for  such  an  illus- 
trated copy  of  Shakespeare  ! In  these  pages  of  Jacob  Cats 
we  have  the  authentic  Holland  of  the  seventeenth  century  : 
— its  vanes  and  spires  and  steep-roofed  houses ; its  gardens 
with  their  geometric  tulip-beds,  their  formally-clipped 
alleys  and  arches,  their  shining  parallelograms  of  water. 
Here  are  its  old-fashioned  interiors,  with  the  deep  fire- 
places and  queer  andirons,  the  huge  four-posters,  the  prim 
portraits  on  the  wall,  the  great  brass-clamped  coffers  and 
carved  armories  for  the  ruffs  and  starched  collars  and  stiff 
farthingales  of  the  women.  In  one  picture  you  may  see 
the  careful  housewife  mournfully  inspecting  a moth-eaten 
garment  which  she  has  just  taken  from  a chest  that  Wardour 
Street  might  envy ; in  another  she  is  energetically  cuffing 
the  ^ foolish  fat  scullion,’  who  has  let  the  spotted  Dalmatian 
coach-dog  overturn  the  cauldron  at  the  fire.  Here  an 
old  crone,  with  her  spectacles  on,  is  cautiously  probing  the 
contents  of  the  said  cauldron  with  a fork ; here  the  mistress 
of  the  house  is  peeling  pears ; here  the  plump  and  soft- 
hearted cheese-wife  is  entertaining  an  admirer — outside 
there  are  pictures  as  vivid.  Here  are  the  clumsy  leather^ 


PORTRAIT  OF  G.  BICKER,  LANDRICHTER  OF  MUIDEN 

VAN  DER  HELST 

From  the  picture  hi  the  Ryks  Mnseuin 


HOMESPUN  WISDOM 


87 


topped  coach  with  its  masked  occupant  and  stumbling 
horses  ; the  towed  trekschuii^  with  its  meny  freight,  sliding 
swiftly  through  the  low-lying  landscape ; the  windy  mole, 
stretching  seaward,  with  its  blown  and  flaring  beacon-fire. 
Here  again  in  the  street  is  the  toy-shop  with  its  open  front 
and  store  of  mimic  drums  and  halberds  for  the  martial  little 
burghers ; here  are  the  fruiteress  with  her  stall  of  grapes 
and  melons,  the  rat-catcher  with  his  string  of  trophies,  the 
fowler  and  his  clap-net,  the  furrier  with  his  stock  of  skins.” 
In  1860  a number  of  Van  der  Venne’s  best  pictures  were 
redrawn  by  John  Leighton  to  accompany  translations  of 
the  fables  by  Richard  Pigot.  As  a taste  of  Cats'  quality 
I quote  two  of  the  pieces.  Why  the  pictures  should  have 
been  redrawn  when  they  might  have  been  reproduced  ex- 
actly is  beyond  my  understanding.  This  is  one  poem  : — 

LIKE  MELONS,  FRIENDS  ARE  TO  BE  FOUND  IN  PLENTY 
OF  WHICH  NOT  EVEN  ONE  IS  GOOD  IN  TWENTY. 

In  choosing  Friends,  it’s  requisite  to  use 
The  self-same  care  as  when  we  Melons  choose : 

No  one  in  haste  a Melon  ever  buys, 

Nor  makes  his  choice  till  three  or  four  he  tries  ; 

And  oft  indeed  when  purchasing  this  fruit, 

Before  the  buyer  can  find  one  to  suit, 

He’s  e’en  obliged  t’  examine  half  a score. 

And  p’rhaps  not  find  one  when  his  search  is  o’er. 

Be  cautious  how  you  choose  a friend  ; 

For  Friendships  that  are  lightly  made, 

Have  seldom  any  other  end 

Than  grief  to  see  one’s  trust  betray’d  1 

And  here  is  another : — 

SMOKE  IS  THE  FOOD  OF  LOVERS. 

When  Cupid  open’d  Shop,  the  Trade  he  chose 
Was  just  the  very  one  you  might  suppose. 

Love  keep  a shop  ? — his  trade.  Oh  ! quickly  name  ! 

A Dealer  in  tobacQp — Fie  for  shame  ( 


88 


FATHER  JACOB  CATS 


No  less  than  true,  and  set  aside  all  joke, 

From  oldest  time  he  ever  dealt  in  Smoke ; 

Than  Smoke,  no  other  thing  he  sold,  or  made  ; 

Smoke  all  the  substance  of  his  stock  in  trade ; 

His  Capital  all  Smoke,  Smoke  all  his  store, 

’T'was  nothing  else ; but  Lovers  ask  no  more — 

' And  thousands  enter  daily  at  his  door  ! 

Hence  it  was  ever,  and  it  e’er  will  be 
The  trade  most  suited  to  his  faculty : — 

Fed  by  the  vapours  of  their  heart’s  desire. 

No  other  food  his  Votaries  require  ; 

For,  that  they  seek — The  Favour  of  the  Fair, 

Is  unsubstantial  as  the  Smoke  ?inci  air. 

From  these  rhymes,  with  their  home-spun  philosophy, 
one  might  assume  Cats  to  have  been  merely  a witty  peasant. 
But  he  was  a man  of  the  highest  culture,  a great  jurist, 
twice  ambassador  to  England,  where  Charles  I.  laid  his 
sword  on  his  shoulder  and  bade  him  rise  Sir  Jacob,  a 
traveller  and  the  friend  of  the  best  intellects.  From  an 
interesting  article  on  Dutch  poetry  in  an  old  Foreign 
Quarterly  Review  I take  an  account  of  the  aphorist : 
Vondel  had  for  his  contemporary  a man,  of  whose  popu- 
larity we  can  hardly  give  an  idea,  unless  we  say  that  to 
speak  Dutch  and  to  have  learnt  Cats  by  heart,  are  almost 
the  same  thing.  Old  Father  Jacob  Cats — (we  beg  to 
apologize  for  his  unhappy  name — and  know  not  why,  like 
the  rest  of  his  countrymen,  he  did  not  euphonize  it  into 
some  well-sounding  epithet,  taken  from  Greece  or  Rome — 
Elouros,  for  example,  or  Felisius ; Catsius  was  ventured 
upon  by  his  contemporaries,  but  the  honest  grey-beard 
stuck  to  his  paternities) — was  a man  of  practical  wisdom 
— great  experience — much  travel — considerable  learning — 
and  wonderful  fluency.  He  had  occupied  high  offices  of 
state,  and  retired  a patriarch  amidst  children  and  children’s 
children,  to  that  agreeable  retreat  which  we  mentioned  as 
not  far  from  The  Hague,  where  we  have  often  dreamed  his 


AND  HIS  WORKS 


89 


sober  and  serious — but  withal  cheerful  and  happy,  spirit, 
might  still  preside.  His  moralities  are  sometimes  prolix, 
and  sometimes  rather  dull.  He  often  sweeps  the  bloom 
away  from  the  imaginative  anticipations  of  youth — and  in 
that  does  little  service,  He  will  have  everything  sub- 
stantial, useful,  permanent.  He  has  no  other  notion  of 
love  than  that  it  is  meant  to  make  good  husbands  and 
wives,  and  to  produce  painstaking  and  obedient  children. 

“ His  poetry  is  rhymed  counsel — kind,  wise,  and  good. 
He  calculates  all  results,  and  has  no  mercy  for  thoughts, 
or  feelings,  or  actions,  which  leave  behind  them  weariness, 
regret  or  misery.  His  volumes  are  a storehouse  of  pru- 
dence and  worldly  wisdom.  For  every  state  of  life  he 
has  fit  lessons,  so  nicely  dovetailed  into  rhyme,  that  the 
morality  seems  made  expressly  for  the  language,  or  the 
language  for  the  morality.  His  thoughts — all  running 
about  among  the  duties  of  life — voluntarily  move  in  har- 
monious numbers,  as  if  to  think  and  to  rhyme  were  one 
solitary  attribute.  For  the  nurse  who  wants  a song  for 
her  babe — the  boy  who  is  tormented  by  the  dread  of  the 
birch — the  youth  whose  beard  begins  to  grow — the  lover 
who  desires  a posey  for  his  lady^s  ring — for  the  husband — 
father — grandsire — for  all  there  is  a store — to  encourage — 
to  console — and  to  be  grateful  for.  The  titles  of  his  works 
are  indices  to  their  contents.  Among  them  are  De 
Ouderdom^  Old  Age ; Buyten  Leven^  Out-of-Doors  Life ; 
Hofgedachten^  Garden  Thoughts ; Gedachten  op  Slapelooze 
Nachten^  Thoughts  of  Sleepless  Nights  ; Trouwring^  Mar- 
riage Ring  ; Zelfstriit^  Self-struggle,  etc.  Never  was  a 
poet  so  essentially  the  poet  of  the  people.  He  is  always 
intelligible — always  sensible— and,  as  was  well  said  of  him 
by  KruijifF, 

Smiling  he  teaches  truth,  and  sporting  wins  to  virtue,” 


90 


SCHEVENINGEN^S  SANDS 


When  President  Kruger  died  last  year  the  memoirs  of 
him  agreed  in  fixing  upon  the  Bible  as  his  only  reading. 
But  I am  certain  he  knew  Vader  Cats  by  heart  too.  If 
ever  a master  had  a faithful  pupil,  Vader  Cats  had  one 
in  Oom  Paul.  The  vivid  yet  homely  metaphors  and 
allegories  in  which  Oom  Paul  conveyed  so  many  of  his 
thoughts  were  drawn  from  the  same  source  as  the  emblems 
of  Vader  Cats.  Both  had  the  ^Esopian  gift. 

We  have  no  one  English  writer  with  whom  to  compare 
Cats ; but  a syndicate  formed  of  Fuller  and  Burton,  Cobbett 
and  Quarles  might  produce  something  akin. 

Scheveningen  is  half  squalid  town,  half  monstrous 
pleasure  resort.  Upon  its  sea  ramparts  are  a series  of 
gigantic  buildings,  greatest  of  which  is  the  Curhaus,  where 
the  best  music  in  Holland  is  to  be  heard.  Its  pier  and 
its  promenade  are  not  at  the  first  glimpse  unlike  Brighton's ; 
but  the  vast  buildings  have  no  counterpart  with  us,  except 
perhaps  at  Blackpool.  What  is,  however,  peculiar  to 
Scheveningen  is  its  expanse  of  sand  covered  with  sentry- 
box  wicker  chairs.  To  stand  on  the  pier  on  a fine  day  in 
the  season  and  look  down  on  these  thousands  of  chairs 
and  people  is  to  receive  an  impression  of  insect-like  activity 
that  I think  cannot  be  equalled.  Immovable  as  they  are,  the 
chairs  seem  to  add  to  the  restlessness  of  the  seething  mass. 
What  a visitor  from  Mars  would  make  of  it  is  a mystery ; 
but  he  could  hardly  fail  to  connect  chair  and  occupant. 
Here,  he  would  say,  is  surely  the  abode  of  giant  snails ! 

On  a windy  day  the  chairs  must  be  of  great  use  ; but  in 
heat  they  seem  to  me  too  vertical  and  too  hard.  One 
must,  however,  either  sit  in  them  or  lie  upon  sand.  There 
is  not  a pebble  on  the  whole  coast:  indeed  there  is  not 
a pebble  in  Holland.  Life  after  lying  upon  sand  can 
b^con^e  to  som^  of  us  a,  burden  almost  too  difficult  to  bear ; 


THE  LITTLE  BIRDS 


91 


but  the  Dutch  holiday-maker  does  not  seem  to  find  it  so. 
As  for  the  children,  they  are  truly  in  Paradise.  There 
can  be  no  sand  better  to  dig  in  than  that  of  Scheveningen  ; 
and  they  dig  in  it  all  day.  A favourite  game  seems  to  be 
to  surround  the  parental  sentry-boxes  with  a fosse.  Every 
family  has  its  castle,  and  every  castle  its  moat. 

I have  been  twice  to  Scheveningen,  and  on  each  occasion 
I acquired  beneath  its  glittering  magnitude  a sense  of 
depression.  That  leaven  of  tenderness  which  every  col- 
lection of  human  beings  must  have  was  harder  to  find  at 
Scheveningen  than  anywhere  in  Holland — everything  was 
so  ordered,  so  organised,  for  pleasure,  pleasure  at  any  price, 
pleasure  almost  at  the  point  of  the  bayonet. 

But  on  the  second  occasion  one  little  incident  saved  the 
day — an  encounter  with  a strolling  bird-fancier  who  dealt 
in  Black- Headed  Mannikins.  Two  of  these  tiny  brisk 
birds,  in  their  Quaker  black  and  brown,  sat  upon  his  cane 
to  attract  purchasers.  They  fluttered  to  his  finger,  perched 
on  his  hat,  simulated  death  in  the  palm  of  his  hand,  and 
went  through  other  evolutions  with  the  speed  of  thought 
and  the  bright  spontaneous  alacrity  possible  only  to  a 
small  loyal  bird.  These,  however,  were  not  for  sale  : these 
were  decoys ; the  saleable  birds  lay,  packed  far  too  close, 
in  little  wooden  boxes  in  the  man’s  bag.  And  Scheveningen 
to  me  means  no  longer  a mile  of  palaces,  no  longer  a hot 
huddle  of  humanity”  on  the  sand  among  myriad  sentry- 
boxes  : its  symbol  is  just  two  Black-Headed  Mannikins. 

From  the  Curhaus  it  is  better  to  return  to  the  Hague  by 
electric  tram  along  the  new  road.  Save  for  passing  a field 
where  the  fishwives  of  Scheveningen  in  their  blue  shawls 
spread  and  mend  their  nets,  this  road  is  dull  and  suburban ; 
but  from  it,  when  the  light  is  failing,  a view  of  Schevenin- 
gen’s  domes  and  spires  may  be  gained  which,  softened  wd 


92 


PETTICOATS  AND  SPINOZA 


made  mysterious  by  the  gloaming,  translates  the  chief 
watering-place  of  Holland  into  an  Eastern  city  of  romance. 

The  fishwives  of  Scheveningen,  I am  told,  carry  the  art 
of  petticoat  wearing  to  a higher  point  than  any  of  their 
sisters.  The  appearance  of  the  homing  fleet  in  the  offing 
is  a signal  for  as  many  as  thirty  of  these  garments  to  be 
put  on  as  a mark  of  welcome  to  a returning  husband. 

Probably  no  shore  anywhere  in  the  world  has  been  so 
often  painted  as  that  of  Scheveningen — ever  since  the 
painting  of  landscape  seemed  a worthy  pursuit.  James 
Maris’  pictures  of  Scheveningen’s  wet  sand,  grey  sea,  and 
huge  flat-bottomed  ships  must  run  into  scores ; Mesdag’s 
too.  Perhaps  it  was  the  artists  that  prevailed  on  the  fisher- 
men to  wear  crimson  knickerbockers — the  note  of  warm 
colour  that  the  scene  demands. 

Here,  although  it  is  separated  from  Scheveningen  by 
some  miles  of  sand,  I should  like  to  say  something  of 
Katwyk — which  is  Leyden’s  marine  resort.  A steam-tram 
carries  people  thither  many  times  a day.  The  rail,  when  first 
I travelled  upon  it,  in  April,  ran  through  tulips  ; in  August, 
when  I was  there  again,  the  patches  of  scarlet  and  orange 
had  given  way  to  acres  of  massive  purple-green  cabbages 
which,  in  the  evening  light,  were  vastly  more  beautiful. 

At  Rynsburg,  one  of  the  villages  on  the  way,  dwelt  in 
1650-51  Benedict  Spinoza,  the  philosopher,  and  there  he 
wrote  his  abridgement  of  the  Meditations  of  Descartes,  his 
master  in  philosophy,  who  had  for  a while  lived  close  by  at 
Endegeest.  Spinoza,  who  was  born  at  Amsterdam  in  1632, 
died  in  1677.  His  house  at  Rynsburg,  which  he  shared 
with  a Colleginat  (one  of  a sect  of  Remonstrants  who  had 
their  headquarters  there)  is  now  a Spinoza  museum ; his 
statue  is  at  The  Hague. 

Katwyk-an-Zee  is  a compact  little  pleasure  resort  with 


ON  THE  BEACH,  SCH  EVEN  IN  GEN 


} 


- ■{; 


SUNRISE  ON  THE  MAAS 


KATWYK  AND  NOORDWYK 


93 


the  usual  fantastic  childish  villas.  Its  most  interesting 
possession  is  the  mouth  of  the  Old  Rhine,  now  restricted 
by  a canal  and  controlled  by  locks.  There  is  perhaps  no 
better  example  of  the  Dutch  power  over  water  than  the 
contrast  between  the  present  narrow  canal  through  which 
the  river  must  disembogue  and  the  unprofitable  marsh 
which  once  spread  here.  The  locks,  which  are  nearly  a 
hundred  years  old,  were  among  the  works  of  the  engineer 
Conrad,  whose  monument  is  in  Haarlem  church. 

From  the  Old  Rhine’s  mouth  to  Noordwyk  is  a lonely 
but  very  bracing  walk  of  three  miles  along  the  sand,  with 
the  dunes  on  one’s  right  hand  and  the  sea  on  one’s  left. 
One  may  meet  perhaps  a few  shell  gatherers,  but  no  one 
else.  We  drove  before  us  all  the  way  a white  company 
consisting  of  a score  of  gulls,  twice  as  many  tern,  two 
oyster  catchers  and  one  curlew.  They  rose  and  settled,  rose 
and  settled,  always  some  thirty  yards  away,  until  Noordwyk 
was  reached,  when  we  left  them  behind.  Never  was  a 
Japanese  screen  so  realised  as  by  these  birds  against  the 
pearl  grey  sea  and  yellow  sand. 

Katwyk  is  more  cheery  than  Noordwyk ; but  Noordwyk 
has  a prettierr  street — indeed,  in  its  old  part  there  is  no 
prettier  street  in  Holland  in  the  light  of  sunset.  As 
Hastings  is  to  Eastbourne,  so  is  Katwyk  to  Noordwyk ; 
Scheveningen  is  Brighton,  Yarmouth,  and  Blackpool  in  one. 
A very  pretty  lace  cap  is  worn  at  Noordwyk  by  villagers 
and  visitors  alike,  to  hold  the  hair  against  the  west  wind. 

From  Noordwyk  we  walked  to  Noordwyk-Binnen,  the 
real  town,  parent  of  the  seaside  resort;  and  there,  at  a 
table  at  the  side  of  the  main  street,  by  an  avenue  so  leafy 
as  to  exclude  even  glints  of  the  sky,  we  sipped  something 
Dutch  whose  name  I could  not  assimilate,  and  waited  for 
the  tram  for  Leyden.  It  was  the  greenest  tunnel  I ever  saw. 


CHAPTER  VII 


LEYDEN 

Steam-trams — Holland  for  the  people — Quiet  Leyden — The  Meermans- 
burg — Leyden’s  museums— The  call  of  the  open — Oliver  Goldsmith 
— A view  of  the  Dutch — “Polite  Learning” — “The  Traveller” — 
James  Howell — John  Evelyn  and  the  Burgundian  Jew — Colloquia 
Peripatetica — St.  Peter’s  and  St.  Pancras’s — The  Kermis — Drinking 
in  Holland — Poffertjes  and  Wafelen — America’s  master. 

WE  travelled  to  Leyden  from  The  Hague  by  the 
steam-tram,  through  cheerful  domestic  surround- 
ings, past  little  Englishy  cottages  and  gardens.  It  was 
Sunday  morning,  and  the  villagers  of  Voorburg  and  Voor- 
schoten  and  the  other  little  places  en  route  were  idle  and  gay. 

In  England  light  railways  are  a rarity ; Holland  is 
covered  with  a net-work  of  them.  The  little  trains  rush 
along  the  roads  all  over  the  country,  while  the  roadside 
willows  rock  in  their  eddying  wake.  To  stand  on  the 
steam-tram  footboard  is  one  very  good  way  to  see  Holland. 
In  England  of  course  we  can  never  have  such  conveniences, 
England  being  a free  country  in  which  individual  rights 
come  first.  But  Holland  exists  for  the  State,  and  such  an 
idea  as  the  depreciation  or  ruin  of  property  by  running  a 
tram  line  over  it  has  never  suggested  itself.  It  is  true  that 
when  the  new  electric  tramway  between  Amsterdam  and 
Haarlem  was  projected,  the  comic  papers  came  to  the 
defence  of  outraged  Nature ; but  they  did  not  really  mean 
it,  as  the  aesthetic  minority  in  England  would  have  meant  it. 

(94) 


THE  DUTCH  STUDENT 


95 


The  steam -tram  journeys  are  always  interesting;  and 
my  advice  to  a traveller  in  Holland  is  to  make  as  much 
use  of  them  as  he  can.  This  is  quite  simple  as  their  time- 
tables are  included  in  the  official  Reisgids.  I like  them  at 
all  times ; but  best  perhaps  when  one  has  to  wait  in  the 
heart  of  some  quiet  village  for  the  other  tram  to  come  up. 
There  is  something  very  soothing  and  attractive  in  these 
sudden  cessations  of  noise  and  movement  in  the  midst  of  a 
totally  strange  community. 

Leyden  is  a paradise  of  clean,  quiet  streets — a city  of 
professors,  students  and  soldiers.  It  has,  I think,  the 
prettiest  red  roofs  in  any  considerable  Dutch  town : not 
prettier  than  Veere’s,  but  Veere  is  now  only  a village.  Philo- 
sophers surely  live  here : book-worms  to  whom  yesterday, 
to-day  and  to-morrow  are  one.  The  sense  of  commercial 
enterprise  dies  away:  whatever  they  are  at  Amsterdam, 
the  Dutch  at  Leyden  cease  to  be  a nation  of  shopkeepers. 

It  was  holiday  time  when  I was  there  last,  and  the  town 
was  comparatively  empty.  No  songs  floated  through  the 
windows  of  the  clubs.  In  talk  with  a stranger  at  one  of  the 
cafes,  I learned  that  the  Dutch  student  works  harder  in  the 
holidays  than  in  term.  In  term  he  is  a social  and  imbibing 
creature ; but  when  the  vacation  comes  and  he  returns  to 
a home  to  which  most  of  the  allurements  which  an  Eng- 
lish boy  would  value  are  wanting,  he  applies  himself  to  his 
books.  I give  the  statement  as  I heard  it. 

One  of  the  pleasantest  buildings  in  Leyden  is  the  Meer- 
mansburg — a spreading  almshouse  in  the  Oude  Vest,  sur- 
rounding a square  garden  with  a massive  pump  in  the 
midst.  A few  pictures  are  shown  in  the  Governors^  room 
over  the  entrance,  but  greater  interest  attaches  to  the  little 
domiciles  for  the  pensioners  of  the  Meerman  trust.  A 
friendly  concierge  with  a wooden  leg  showed  us  one  of 


96 


LEYDEN’S  MUSEUMS 


these  compact  houses — a sitting-room  with  a bed-cupboard 
in  one  wall,  and  below  it  a little  larder,  like  the  cabin  of  a 
ship.  At  the  back  a tiny  range,  and  above,  a gaiTet.  One 
could  be  very  comfortable  in  such  quarters. 

Leyden  has  other  hqfjes^  as  these  homes  of  rest  are  called, 
into  one  of  which,  gay  with  geraniums,  I peeped — a little 
court  of  clean  cottages  seen  through  the  doorway  like  a 
Peter  de  Hooch. 

I did  not,  I fear,  do  my  duty  by  Leyden’s  many  museums. 
The  sun  shone ; the  boats  swam  continually  down  the  Old 
Rhine  and  the  New ; and  the  sea  at  Katwyk  and  Noordwyk 
sent  a call  across  the  intervening  meadows.  Some  day 
perhaps  I shall  find  myself  at  Leyden  again,  when  the  sky 
is  grey  and  the  thirst  for  information  is  more  strongly 
upon  me.  Ethnography,  comparative  anatomy,  physiology 
— there  is  nothing  that  may  not  be  learned  in  the  Leyden 
museums ; but  such  learning  is  not  peculiarly  Dutch,  nor 
are  the  treasures  of  these  museums  peculiarly  Dutch,  and 
I felt  that  I mio-ht  with  a clear  conscience  leave  them  to 

o 

others.  Have  we  not  Bloomsbury  ? 

I did,  however,  climb  the  Burg,  which  is  a circular  fortress 
on  a mound  between  the  two  rivers,  so  cleverly  hidden  away 
among  houses  that  it  was  long  ere  I could  find  it.  It  is 
gained  through  an  ancient  courtyard  full  of  horses  and 
carriages — like  a scene  in  Dumas.  From  the  Burg  one 
ought  to  have  a fine  view,  but  Leyden’s  roofs  are  too 
near.  And  in  the  Natural  History  Museum  I walked 
through  miles  of  birds  stuffed,  and  birds  articulated,  until 
I felt  that  I could  give  a year’s  income  to  be  on  terms 
again  with  a living  blackbmd — even  one  of  those  that  eat 
our  Kentish  strawbemes  at  sunrise. 

I did  not  penetrate  to  the  interior  of  the  University, 
having  none  to  guide  me,  but  I was  pleased  to  remember 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 


97 


that  Oliver  Goldsmith  had  been  a student  there  not  so 
very  long  ago.  Indeed,  as  I walked  about  the  town,  I 
thought  much  of  Goldsmith  as  he  was  in  1755,  aged 
twenty-seven,  with  all  his  books  to  write,  wandering 
through  the  same  streets,  looking  upon  the  same  houses 
and  canals,  in  the  interval  of  acquiring  his  mysterious 
medical  degree  (ultimately  conferred  at  Louwain).  His 
ingenious  project,  it  will  be  remembered — by  those  whose 
memories  (like  my  own)  cling  to  that  order  of  information, 
to  the  exclusion  of  everything  useful  and  improving — 
Goldsmith’s  delightful  plan  for  subsistence  in  Holland  was 
to  teach  the  English  language  to  the  Dutch,  and  in  return 
receive  enough  money  to  keep  him  at  the  University  of 
I^eyden  and  enable  him  to  hear  the  great  Professor  Albinus. 
It  was  not  until  he  reached  Holland  that  those  adorable 
Irish  brains  of  his  realised  that  he  who  teaches  English  to 
a Dutchman  must  first  know  Dutch. 

Goldsmith,  who  spent  his  life  in  doing  characteristic 
things — few  men  have  done  more — when  once  he  had 
determined  to  go  to  Holland,  took  a passage  in  a vessel 
bound  for  Bordeaux.  At  Newcastle-on-Tyne,  however, 
on  going  ashore  to  be  merry,  he  was  arrested  as  a Jacobite 
and  thrown  into  prison  for  a fortnight.  The  result  was 
that  the  ship  sailed  without  him.  It  was  just  as  well 
for  him  and  for  us,  for  it  sank  at  the  mouth  of  the 
Garonne.  In  1755,  however,  he  was  in  Leyden,  although 
by  what  route,  circuitous  or  direct,  he  reached  that  Cjity  we 
do  not  know. 

He  lost  little  time  in  giving  his  Uncle  Contarine  an 
account  of  his  impressions  of  Holland  and  its  people.  Here 
is  a portion  of  a long  letter : The  modern  Dutchman  is 

quite  a different  creature  from  him  of  former  times : he 
in  everything  imitates  a Frenchman,  but  in  his  easy  dis- 
7 


98 


THE  DUTCH  AND  THE  SCOTCH 


engaged  air,  which  is  the  result  of  keeping  polite  company. 
The  Dutchman  is  vastly  ceremonious,  and  is  perhaps  exactly 
what  a Frenchman  might  have  been  in  the  reign  of 
Louis  XIV.  Such  are  the  better  bred.  But  the  downright 
Hollander  is  one  of  the  oddest  figures  in  nature : upon 
a head  of  lank  hair  he  wears  a half-cocked  narrow  hat 
laced  with  black  ribbon;  no  coat,  but  seven  waistcoats, 
and  nine  pairs  of  breeches ; so  that  his  hips  reach  almost 
up  to  his  arm-pits.  This  well-clothed  vegetable  is  now 
fit  to  see  company,  or  make  love.  But  what  a pleasing 
creature  is  the  object  of  his  appetite!.  Why  she  wears 
a large  fur  cap  with  a deal  of  Flanders  lace : and  for  every 
pair  of  breeches  he  can*ies,  she  puts  on  two  petticoats. 

Dutch  lady  burns  nothing  about  her  phlegmatic 
admirer  but  his  tobacco.  You  must  know,  sir,  every 
women  candies  in  her  hand  a stove  with  coals  in  it,  which, 
when  she  sits,  she  snugs  under  her  petticoats  ; and  at  this 
chimney  dozing  Strephon  lights  his  pipe.  I take  it  that 
this  continual  smoking  is  what  gives  the  man  the  ruddy 
healthful  complexion  he  generally  wears,  by  draining  his 
superfluous  moisture,  while  the  woman,  deprived  of  this 
amusement,  overflows  with  such  viscidities  as  tint  the 
complexion,  and  give  that  paleness  of  visage  which  low 
fenny  grounds  and  moist  air  conspire  to  cause.  A Dutch 
woman  and  Scotch  will  bear  an  opposition.  The  one  is 
pale  and  fat,  the  other  lean  and  ruddy : the  one  walks  as 
if  she  were  straddling  after  a go-cart,  and  the  other  takes 
too  masculine  a stride.  I shall  not  endeavour  to  deprive 
either  country  of  its  share  of  beauty ; but  must  say,  that 
of  all  objects  on  this  earth,  an  English  farmer’s  daughter 
is  most  charming.  Every  woman  there  is  a complete 
beauty,  while  the  higher  class  of  women  want  many  of  the 
requisites  to  make  them  even  tolerable. 


WINTER 


99 


“ Their  pleasures  here  are  very  dull  though  very  various. 
You  may  smoke,  you  may  doze,  you  may  go  to  the  Italian 
comedy,  as  good  an  amusement  as  either  of  the  former. 
This  entertainment  always  brings  in  Harlequin,  who  is 
generally  a magician,  and  in  consequence  of  his  diabolical 
art  performs  a thousand  tricks  on  the  rest  of  the  persons 
of  the  drama,  who  are  all  fools.  I have  seen  the  pit  in 
a roar  of  laughter  at  this  humour,  when  with  his  sword  he 
touches  the  glass  from  which  another  was  drinking.  'Twas 
not  his  face  they  laughed  at,  for  that  was  masked.  They 
must  have  seen  something  vastly  queer  in  the  wooden 
sword,  that  neither  I,  nor  you,  sir,  were  you  there,  could 
see. 

^^In  winter,  when  their  canals  are  frozen,  every  house 
is  forsaken,  and  all  people  are  on  the  ice  ; sleds  drawn  by 
horses,  and  skating,  are  at  that  time  the  reigning  amuse- 
ments. They  have  boats  here  that  slide  on  the  ice,  and 
are  driven  by  the  winds.  When  they  spread  all  their  sails 
they  go  more  than  a mile  and  a half  a minute,  and  their 
motion  is  so  rapid  the  eye  can  scarcely  accompany  them. 
Their  ordinary  manner  of  travelling  is  very  cheap  and  very 
convenient : they  sail  in  covered  boats  drawn  by  horses ; 
and  in  these  you  are  sure  to  meet  people  of  all  nations. 
Here  the  Dutch  slumber,  the  French  chatter,  and  the 
English  play  at  cards.  Any  man  who  likes  company  may 
have  them  to  his  taste.  For  my  part  I generally  detached 
myself  from  all  society,  and  was  wholly  taken  up  in  observ- 
ing the  face  of  the  country.  Nothing  can  equal  its  beauty ; 
wherever  I turn  my  eye,  fine  houses,  elegant  gardens,  statues, 
grottos,  vistas,  presented  themselves ; but  when  you  enter 
their  towns  you  are  charmed  beyond  description.  No 
misery  is  to  be  seen  here ; every  one  is  usefully  em- 
ployed. 


100 


SCOTCH  AND  DUTCH  AGAIN 


Scotland  and  this  country  beai*  the  highest  conti’ast. 
There  hills  and  rocks  intercept  every  prospect : here  Tis  all 
a continued  plain.  There  you  might  see  a well-dressed 
duchess  issuing  from  a dirty  close ; and  here  a dirty  Dutch- 
man inhabiting  a palace.  The  Scotch  may  be  compared 
' to  a tulip  planted  in  dung ; but  I never  see  a Dutchman 
in  his  own  house  but  I think  of  a magnificent  Egyptian 
temple  dedicated  to  an  ox.  Phpic  is  by  no  means  here 
taught  so  well  as  in  Edinburgh : and  in  all  Leyden  there 
are  but  four  British  students^  owing  to  all  necessaries  being 
so  extremely  dear  and  the  professors  so  very  lazy  (the 
chemical  professor  excepted)  that  we  don’t  much  care  to 
come  hither.” 

When  the  time  came  to  make  the  Inquiry  into  the 
State  of  Polite  Learning”  Leyden  had  to  suffer.  Gold- 
smith laid  about  him  with  no  gentle  hand.  Holland, 
at  fii’st  view,  appears  to  have  some  pretensions  to  polite 
learning.  It  may  be  regarded  as  the  great  emporium,  not 
less  of  literature  than  of  every  other  commodity.  Here, 
though  destitute  of  what  may  be  properly  called  a language 
of  their  own,  all  the  languages  are  understood,  cultivated 
and  spoken.  All  useful  inventions  in  arts,  and  new  dis- 
coveries in  science,  are  published  here  almost  as  soon  as 
at  the  places  which  first  produced  them.  Its  individuals 
have  the  same  faults,  however,  with  the  Germans,  of  making 
more  use  of  their  memory  than  their  j udgment.  The  chief 
employment  of  their  literati  is  to  criticise,  or  answer,  the 
new  performances  which  appear  elsewhere. 

A dearth  of  wit  in  France  or  England  naturally  pro- 
duces a scarcity  in  Holland.  What  Ovid  says  of  Echo 
may  be  applied  here, 


‘ nec  reticere  loquenti, 

Nec  prior  ipsa  loqui  didicit  ’• 


«THE  TRAVELLERS’ 


101 


they  wait  till  something  new  comes  out  from  others ; 
examine  its  merits  and  reject  it,  or  make  it  reverberate 
through  the  rest  of  Europe. 

After  all,  I know  not  whether  they  should  be  allowed 
any  national  character  for  polite  learning.  All  their  taste 
is  derived  to  them  from  neighbouring  nations,  and  that  in 
a language  not  their  own.  They  somewhat  resemble  their 
brokers,  who  trade  for  immense  sums  without  having  any 
capital.’’ 

Goldsmith  did  not  finish  there.  His  obseiwations  on  the 
Continent  served  him,  with  a frugality  that  he  did  not 
otherwise  practise,  at  least  thrice.  He  used  them  in  the 
Inquiry  into  Polite  Learning,”  he  used  them  in  the  story 
of  the  Philosophic  Vagabond  in  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield^  and 
still  again  in  ^^The  Traveller”.  This  is  the  summary  of 
Holland  in  that  poem  : — 

To  men  of  other  minds  my  fancy  flies, 

Embosom’d  in  the  deep  where  Holland  lies. 

Methinks  her  patient  sons  before  me  stand, 

Where  the  broad  ocean  leans  against  the  land. 

And,  sedulous  to  stop  the  coming  tide. 

Lift  the  tall  rampire’s  artificial  pride. 

Onward,  methinks,  and  diligently  slow. 

The  firm  connected  bulwark  seems  to  grow ; 

Spreads  its  long  arms  amidst  the  watery  roar, 

Scoops  out  an  empire,  and  usurps  the  shore. 

While  the  pent  ocean,  rising  o’er  the  pile. 

Sees  an  amphibious  world  beneath  him  smile  ; 

The  slow  canal,  the  yellow-blossom’d  vale, 

The  willow-tufted  bank,  the  gliding  sail. 

The  crowded  mart,  the  cultivated  plain, 

A new  creation  rescued  from  his  reign. 

Thus,  while  around  the  wave-subjected  soil 
Impels  the  native  to  repeated  toil, 

Industrious  habits  in  each  bosom  reign. 

An  industry  begets  a love  of  gain. 


102 


UNCLE  CONTARINE’S  FLOWER 


Hence  all  the  good  from  opulence  that  springs, 

With  all  those  ills  superfluous  treasure  brings, 

Are  here  display’d.  Their  much-lov’d  wealth  imparts 
Convenience,  plenty,  elegance,  and  arts : 

But  view  them  closer,  craft  and  fraud  appear, 

Even  liberty  itself  is  barter’d  here. 

At  gold’s  superior  charms  all  freedom  flies, 

The  needy  sell  it,  and  the  rich  man  buys ; 

A land  of  tyrants,  and  a den  of  slaves, 

Here  wretches  seek  dishonourable  graves. 

And  calmly  bent,  to  servitude  conform, 

Dull  as  their  lakes  that  slumber  in  the  storm. 

It  was  with  his  good  Uncle  Contarine’s  money  that  Gold- 
smith travelled  to  Leyden.  The  time  came  to  leave,  and 
Oliver  was  again  without  resources.  He  boiTOwed  a suf- 
ficient sum  from  Dr.  Ellis,  a fellow-countryman  living  there, 
and  prepared  for  his  departure.  But  on  his  way  from  the 
doctor’s  he  had  to  pass  a florist’s,  in  whose  window  there 
chanced  to  be  exhibited  the  very  variety  of  flower  which 
Uncle  Contarine  had  so  often  praised  and  expressed  a 
desire  to  possess.  Given  the  man  and  the  moment,  what 
can  you  expect  ^ Goldsmith,  chief  among  those  blessed 
natures  who  never  inteiTupt  a generous  impulse,  plunged 
into  the  florist’s  house  and  despatched  a costly  bundle  of 
bulbs  to  Ireland.  The  next  day  he  left  Leyden  with  a 
guinea  in  his  pocket,  no  clothes  but  those  he  stood  in, 
and  a flute  in  his  hand.  For  the  rest  you  must  see  the 
story  of  the  Philosophic  Vagabond. 

Evelyn  records  an  amusing  experience  at  Leyden  in 
August,  1641:  ^‘I  was  brought  acquainted  with  a Bur- 
gundian Jew,  who  had  married  an  apostate  Kentish  woman. 
I asked  him  divers  questions ; he  told  me,  amongst  other 
things,  that  the  World  should  never  end,  that  our  souls 
transmigrated,  and  that  even  those  of  the  most  holy  persons 
did  penance  in  the  bodies  of  brutes  after  death,  and  so  he 


THE  BURGUNDIAN  JEW 


103 


interpreted  the  banishment  and  savage  life  of  Nebuchad- 
nezzar; that  all  the  Jews  should  rise  again,  and  be  led  to 
Jerusalem  ; that  the  Romans  only  were  the  occasion  of  our 
Saviour’s  death,  whom  he  affirmed  (as  the  Turks  do)  to  be 
a great  prophet,  but  not  the  Messiah.  He  showed  me 
several  books  of  their  devotion,  which  he  had  translated 
into  English  for  the  instruction  of  his  wife ; he  told  me 
that  when  the  Messiah  came,  all  the  ships,  barks,  and 
vessels  of  Holland  should,  by  the  power  of  certain  strange 
whirlwinds,  be  loosed  from  their  anchors,  and  transported 
in  a moment  to  all  the  desolate  ports  and  havens  through- 
out the  world,  wherever  the  dispersion  was,  to  convey  their 
brethren  and  tribes  to  the  Holy  City ; with  other  such-like 
stuff.  He  was  a meiTy  drunken  fellow,  but  would  by  no 
means  handle  any  money  (for  something  I purchased  of 
him),  it  being  Saturday ; but  desired  me  to  leave  it  in  the 
window,  meaning  to  receive  it  on  Sunday  morning.” 

In  an  old  book-shop  at  Leyden  I bought  from  an  odd 
lot  of  English  books,  chiefly  minor  fiction  for  travellers,  the 
Colloquia  Peripatetica  of  John  Duncan,  LL.D.,  Professor 
of  Hebrew  in  the  New  College,  Edinbm’gh.  ^‘Fm  first  a 
Christian,  next  a Catholic,  then  a Calvinist,  fourth  a Paedo- 
baptist,  and  fifth  a Presbyterian.  I cannot  reverse  the 
order,”  is  one  of  his  emphatic  utterances.  Here  are  others, 
not  unconnected  with  the  country  we  are  travelling  in : 
Poor  Erasmus  truckled  all  his  life  for  a hat.  If  he  could 
only  have  been  made  a cardinal ! You  see  the  longing  for 
it  in  his  very  features,  and  can’t  help  regarding  him  with 
mingled  respect  and  pity.”  Of  Thomas  k Kempis,  the 
recluse  of  Deventer : A fine  fellow,  but  hazy,  and  weak 

betimes.  He  and  his  school  tend  (as  some  one  has  well 
said)  to  make  humility  and  humiliation  change  places.” 
Finallv,  of  the  Bible  : ^‘The  three  best  translations  of  the 


104 


THE  KERMIS 


Bible,  in  my  opinion,  are,  in  order  of  merit,  the  English, 
the  Dutch,  and  Diodati’s  Italian  version.  As  to  Luther, 
he  is  admirable  in  rendering  the  prophets.  He  says  either 
just  what  the  prophets  did  say^  or  that  which  you  see  at 
once  they  might  have  said^ 

Leyden  has  two  vast  churches,  St.  Peter’s  and  St. 
Pancras’s.  Both  are  immense  and  unadorned;  I think 
that  St.  Pancras’s  is  the  lightest  church  I was  ever  in. 
St.  Peter’s  ought  to  be  filled  with  memorials  of  the  town’s 
illustrious  sons,  but  it  has  few.  As  I have  said  elsewhere, 
I asked  in  vain  for  the  grave  of  Jan  Steen,  who  was  buried 
here. 

It  was  at  Leyden  that  I saw  my  first  Kermis,  or  fair, 
seven  years  ago,  and  ate  my  first  poflertjes  and  wafelen. 
Writing  as  a foreigner,  in  no  way  concerned  with  the 
matter,  I may  express  regret  that  the  Kermis  is  not  what 
it  was  in  Holland.  Possibly  were  one  living  in  Holland, 
one  would  at  once  join  the  anti-Kermis  party ; but  I hope 
not.  In  Amsterdam  the  anti-Kermis  party  has  succeeded, 
and  though  one  may  still  in  that  city  at  certain  seasons 
eat  wafelen  and  poffhrtjes,  the  old  glories  have  departed, 
just  as  they  have  departed  from  so  many  English  towns 
which  once  broke  loose  for  a few  nights  every  year.  Even 
Barnet  Fair  is  not  what  it  was.  \ 

Noise  seems  to  be  the  principal  objection.  Personally,  I 
never  saw  any  drunkenness ; and  there  is  so  little  real 
revelry  that  one  turns  one’s  back  on  the  naphtha  lamps  in 
this  town  and  that,  in  Leyden  and  the  Hoorn,  Apeldoom 
and  Middelburg,  with  the  sad  conviction  that  the  times  are 
out  of  joint,  and  that  Teniers  and  Ostade  and  Brouwar, 
were  they  reborn  to-day,  would  probably  either  have  to 
take  to  painting  Christmas  supplements  or  earn  their 
living  at  a reputable  trade.  It  is  not  that  the  Dutch 


tn 

g § 

cT!  ca 

H w 
K « 
H 


From  the  pict7ire  iti  the  Ryks  Mjiseutn 


POFFERTJES  AND  WAFELEN 


105 


no  longer  drink,  but  that  they  now  do  it  with  more 
privacy. 

The  travelling  temples  reserved  for  the  honour  of  pof- 
fertjes  and  wafelen  are  the  most  noticeable  features  of 
any  Kermis.  They  are  divided,  quite  like  restaurants, 
into  little  cubicles  for  separate  parties.  Flowers  and 
ferns  make  them  gay;  the  waiters  may  even  wear  even- 
ing dress,  but  this  is  a refinement  which  would  have 
annoyed  Jan  Steen ; on  the  tables  is  white  American 
cloth ; and  curtains  of  coloured  material  and  muslin, 
with  bright  ribbons,  add  to  the  vivacity  of  the  occasion. 
To  eat  pofFertjes  and  wafelen  is  no  light  matter : one 
must  regard  it  as  a ritual. 

Poffertjes  come  first — these  are  little  round  pancakey 
blobs,  twisted  and  covered  with  butter  and  sugar.  Then 
the  wafelen,  which  are  oblong  wafers  stamped  in  a mould 
and  also  buttered  and  sugared.  You  eat  twenty-four  pof- 
fertjes and  two  wafelen  : that  is,  at  the  first  onset.  After- 
wards, as  many  more  as  you  wish.  Lager  beer  is  drunk 
with  them.  Some  prefer  Frambozen  lemonade. 

To  eat  them  is  a duty ; to  see  them  cooked  is  a joy.  I 
have  watched  the  cooks  almost  for  hours.  The  poffertjes 
are  made  by  hundreds  at  once,  in  a tray  indented  with 
little  hollows  over  a fire.  The  cook  is  continually  busy 
in  twisting  the  little  dabs  of  paste  into  the  hollows  and 
removing  those  that  are  ready.  The  wafelen  are  baked  in 
iron  moulds  (there  is  one  in  Jan  Steen’s  “ Oyster  Feast  ”) 
laid  on  a rack  in  the  fire.  The  cook  has  eight  moulds 
in  working  order  at  once.  When  the  eighth  is  filled 
from  the  pail  of  batter  at  his  side,  the  first  is  done;  and 
so  on,  ceaselessly,  all  day  and  half  the  night,  like  a 
natural  law. 

A woman  stands  by  to  spread  butter  and  sugar,  and 


106  THE  ORIGIN  OF  QUICK  LUNCHES 

the  plate  is  whisked  away  in  a moment.  The  Americans 
boast  of  their  quick  lunches  ; but  I am  convinced  that  they 
borrowed  celerity  in  cooking  and  serving  from  some  Knicker- 
bocker deviser  of  poffertjes  and  wafelen  in  the  early  days  of 
New  York.  I wonder  that  Washington  Irving  omitted  to 
say  so. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


LEYDEN’S  PAINTERS,  A FANATIC  AND  A HERO 

Rembrandt  of  the  Rhine — His  early  life  at  Leyden — Jan  Steen — Jan  van 
Goyen — Brewer  and  painter — Pictures  for  beer — Jan  Steen’s  grave 
— His  delicacy  and  charm — His  native  refinement — A painter  of 
hands — Jan  Steen  and  Morland — Jan  Steen  and  Hogarth — The  Red 
Sea — The  Flood — Jan  of  Leyden — The  siege  of  Munster — Gigantic 
madness — Gerard  Dou — Godfrey  Schalcken — Frans  van  Mieris — 
William  van  Mieris — Gabriel  Metsu — Beckford’s  satire — Leyden’s 
poor  pictures — The  siege  of  Leyden — Adrian  van  der  Werf. 

Leyden  was  the  mother  of  some  precious  human  clay. 

Among  her  sons  was  the  greatest  of  Dutch  painters, 
Rembrandt  van  Rijn  ; the  most  lovable  of  them,  Jan  Steen  ; 
and  the  most  patient  of  them,  Gerard  Dou. 

Of  Rembrandt’s  genius  it  is  late  in  the  day  to  write, 
nor  have  I the  power.  We  have  seen  certain  of  his  pictures 
at  The  Hague ; we  shall  see  others  at  Amsterdam.  I can 
add  nothing  to  what  is  said  in  those  places,  but  here,  in 
Leyden  (which  has  ten  thousand  stuffed  birds,  and  not  a 
single  picture  by  her  greatest  son),  one  may  dwell  upon  his 
early  days  and  think  of  him  wandering  as  a boy  in  the 
surrounding  country  unconsciously  absorbing  eiBPects  of 
light  and  shade. 

Rembrandt  Harmenszoon  van  Rijn  was  born  on  July 
15,  1606,  probably  in  a house  at  the  corner  of  the  Wed- 
desteg,  near  the  Wittepoort,  on  the  bank  of  the  Rhine. 
It  was  the  same  year  that  gave  England^  and 

(107) 


108 


REMBRANDT^S  YOUTH 


Lear,  His  father  was  a miller,  his  mother  the  daughter  of 
a Leyden  baker : it  was  destined  that  the  son  of  these 
simple  folk  should  be  the  greatest  painter  that  the  north  of 
Europe  has  produced. 

They  did  not  foresee  such  a fate,  but  they  seem  suf- 
ficiently to  have  realised  that  their  son  had  unusual  aptitude 
for  him  to  be  sent  to  study  law  at  the  University.  But  he 
meant  from  the  first  to  paint,  and  when  he  should  have 
been  studying  text-books  he  was  studying  nature.  The  old 
miller,  having  a wise  head,  gave  way,  and  Rembrandt  was 
allowed  to  enter  the  studio  of  Jacob  van  Swanenburgh. 
That  was  probably  in  1622,  when  he  was  sixteen ; in  1624 
he  knew  so  much  more  than  Swanenburgh  had  ever  dreamed 
of  that  he  passed  on  to  Amsterdam,  to  see  what  could  be 
learned  from  Peter  Eastman.  But  Eastman  was  of  little 
use,  and  Rembrandt  soon  returned  to  Leyden. 

There  he  set  up  his  own  studio,  painting,  however,  at  his 
father^s  house — possibly  even  in  the  mill  itself — as  much 
as  he  could ; and  for  seven  years  he  taught  younger  men  at 
Leyden  his  secrets.  He  remained  at  Leyden  until  1631, 
moving  then  again  to  Amsterdam  and  beginning  the 
greatest  period  of  his  life.  At  Leyden  he  had  painted 
much  and  etched  much ; perhaps  the  portrait  of  himself  in 
a steel  gorget,  at  The  Hague,  is  his  finest  Leyden  picture. 
It  was  not  until  1632,  the  year  in  which  he  married  his 
Saskia,  that  the  first  of  his  most  famous  works,  The  School 
of  Anatomy,”  was  painted.  Yet  Leyden  may  consider  that 
it  was  she  that  showed  the  way ; she  may  well  be  proud. 

RembrandPs  later  life  belongs  to  Amsterdam ; but 

Levden  had  other  illustrious  sons  who  were  faithful  to 

•/ 

her  to  the  end.  Chief  of  these  was  Jan  Steen. 

Harmens  the  miller,  as  we  have  seen,  became  the  father 
of  a boy  named  Rembrandt  in  1606 ; it  was  twenty  years 


JAN  STEEN 


109 


later  that  Steen  the  brewer  rejoiced  over  the  birth  of  a son 
called  Jan. 

Of  Jan’s  childhood  we  know  nothing,  but  as  a young 
man  he  was  sent  by  his  father  to  Utrecht  to  study  under 
Nicholas  Knupfer.  Then  he  passed  on  to  Adrian  van 
Ostade  and  probably  to  Adrian  Brouwer,  with  both  of 
whom  and  Frans  Hals  we  saw  him  carousing,  after  his 
wont,  in  a picture  by  Brouwer  in  Baron  Steengracht’s 
house  at  The  Hague.  Finally  he  became  the  pupil  of  Jan 
van  Goyen,  painter  of  the  beautiful  Valkhof  at  Nymegen,” 
No.  991  in  the  Ryks  Museum,  a picture  which  always  makes 
me  think  of  Andrew  Marvell’s  poem  on  the  Bermudas. 
Like  many  another  art  pupil,  Jan  Steen  married  his 
master’s  daughter. 

Jan  van  Goyen,  I might  add,  was  another  of  Leyden’s 
sons.  He  was  born  in  1596  and  he  died  at  The  Hague  in 
1666,  while  London  was  suffering  under  the  Plague. 

Jan  Steen  seems  to  have  intended  to  make  brewing  his 
staff  and  painting  merely  his  cane ; but  good  nature  and 
a terrible  thirst  were  too  much  for  him.  Fi’om  brewing  he 
descended  to  keeping  a tavern,  “ in  which  occupation,”  to 
quote  Ireland,  he  was  himself  his  best  customer  After 
a while,  having  exhausted  his  cellar,  he  took  seriously  to 
painting  in  order  to  renew  it,  paying  for  his  liquor  with  his 
brush.  Thus  for  a long  time  his  works  were  to  be  found 
only  in  the  hands  of  dealers  in  wine  Who,  after  this, 
shall  have  the  hardihood  to  speak  evil  of  the  grape  ? 

Jan  is  not  supposed  to  have  lived  at  Leyden  after  his 
marriage  to  Margaretta  van  Goyen,  in  1649,  until  1669, 
when  his  father  died.  In  1672  he  is  known  to  have  taken 
a tavern  at  Leyden  at  the  Lange  Brug. 

Of  the  intervening  years  little  is  known.  He  was  pro- 
bably at  Haarlem  part  of  the  time  and  at  The  Hague 


110 


A MASTER  OF  CHARM 


part  of  the  time.  In  1667  he  paid  his  rent — only  twenty - 
nine  florins — with  three  pictures  painted  well  as  he  was 
able”.  Margaretta  died  in  1669 — a merry  large  woman 
we  must  suppose  her  from  her  appearance  in  Jan’s  pictures, 
and  the  mother  of  four  or  five  children  who  may  often  be 
seen  in  the  same  scenes.  Jan  married  again  in  1673  and 
died  in  1697. 

He  was  buried  in  St.  Peter’s  Church,  Leyden,  leaving 
more  than  five  hundred  pictures  to  his  name.  The  youth 
who,  in  the  absence  of  the  koster,  accompanied  me  through 
St.  Peter’s  Church,  so  far  from  knowing  where  Jan  Steen 
was  buried,  had  never  even  heard  his  name.  (And  at  the 
Western  Church  in  Amsterdam,  where  Rembrandt  is  said  to 
have  been  buried,  his  resting-place  cannot  be  pointed  out. 
But  never  a Dutch  admiral’s  grave  is  in  doubt.) 

For  all  his  roystering  and  recklessness,  for  all  his  drinking 
and  excess,  Jan  Steen’s  work  is  essentially  delicate.  He 
painted  the  sublimated  essence  of  comedy.  Teniers,  Ostade, 
Brouwer  are  coarse  and  boorish  beside  him ; Metsu  and 
Mieris  genteel.  Even  when  he  is  painting  low  life  Jan 
Steen  is  distinguished,  a gentleman.  And  now  and  then  he 
touches  the  springs  of  tears,  so  exquisite  in  his  sympathetic 
understanding.  He  remains  the  most  lovable  painter  in 
Holland,  and  the  tenderest — in  a country  where  tenderness 
is  not  easily  found. 

Look,  for  example,  at  the  two  pictures  at  The  Hague  ^ 
which  are  reproduced  opposite  pages  74  and  80.  The  first 
represents  the  Steen  family.  The  jolly  Jan  himself  is  smok- 
ing at  the  table;  the  old  brewer  and  the  elder  Mrs.  Steen  are 
in  the  foreground.  I doubt  if  any  picture  exists  in  which 
the  sense  of  innocent  festivity  is  better  expressed.  It  is  all 
perhaps  rather  a muddle : Mrs.  Steen  has  some  hard  work 
before  her  if  the  house  is  to  be  restored  to  a Dutch  pitch 


THE  OYSTER  FEAST 

JAN  STEEN 

From  the  pict^tre  zn  the  Mauritshnis 


•4s 


STEEN  AND  MORLAND 


111 


of  cleanliness  and  order  ; but  how  jolly  every  one  is ! Jan 
himself  looks  just  as  we  should  expect. 

The  triumph  of  the  Oyster  Feast,”  on  the  opposite  page, 
seems  to  me  to  be  the  girl  kneeling  in  the  corner.  Here 
is  drawing  indeed.  The  charge  brought  by  the  mysterious 
painter  in  Balzac’s  story  against  Pourbus,  that  one  was 
unable  to  walk  behind  the  figure  in  his  picture,  could  never 
hold  with  Jan  Steen.  His  every  figure  stands  out  surrounded 
by  atmosphere,  and  never  more  so  than  in  the  ‘^Oyster 
Feast  ”.  Again,  in  the  Cat’s  Dancing  Lesson  ” (opposite 
page  158),  what  drawing  there  is  in  the  girl  playing  the 
pipe,  and  what  life  in  the  whole  scene ! 

It  is  odd  that  Jan  Steen  in  Holland,  and  George  Morland 
in  England,  both  topers,  should  have  had  this  secret  of 
simple  charm  so  highly  developed  : one  of  nature’s  curious 
ironies,  very  confusing  to  the  moralist.  In  the  second 
Hague  picture  (opposite  page  80)  Leyden’s  genial  tosspot 
has  achieved  a farther  triumph — he  has  painted  one  of  the 
most  radiantly  delicate  figures  in  all  art.  One  must  go 
to  Italy  and  seek  among  the  early  Madonnas  to  find  any- 
thing to  set  beside  the  sweet  Wordsworthian  character  of 
this  little  Dutch  girl  who  feeds  the  animals. 

It  was  Jan  Steen’s  way  to  scamp  much  of  every  picture ; 
but  in  every  picture  you  will  find  one  figure  that  could  not 
be  excelled.  Nothing  probably  could  be  more  slovenly, 
more  hideously  unpainted,  than,  for  example,  the  bed  and 
the  guitar-case  in  the  ‘^Sick  Woman” — No.  2246  at  the 
Ryks  Museum — opposite  page  22.  But  I doubt  if  human 
skill  has  ever  transcended  the  painting  of  the  woman’s  face, 
or  the  sheer  drawing  of  her.  I.ook  at  her  arm  and  hand 
— Jan  Steen  never  went  wrong  with  arms  and  hands. 
Look  at  the  hands  of  the  boy  playing  the  pipe  in  the 
picture  opposite  page  74;  look  at  the  woman  filling  a 


112 


THE  DUTCH  BURNS 


pipe  at  the  table.  To-day  we  are  accustomed  to  pictures 
containing  children : they  are  as  necessary  as  sunsets  to 
picture  buyers : all  our  figure-painters  lavish  their  talents 
upon  them ; but  who  had  ever  troubled  to  paint  a real 
peasant  child  before  Jan  Steen?  It  was  this  rough  toper 
that  showed  the  way,  and  no  one  since  has  ever  excelled 
him. 

Parallels  have  been  drawn  between  Jan  Steen  and 
Hogarth,  and  there  are  critics  who  would  make  Jan  a 
moralist  too.  But  I do  not  see  how  we  can  compare 
them.  Steen  did  what  Hogarth  could  not,  Hogarth  did 
what  Steen  would  not.  Hogarth  is  rarely  charming,  Steen 
is  rarely  otherwise.  It  is  not  Hogarth  with  whom  I should 
associate  Jan,  but  Bums.  He  is  the  Dutch  Burns — in 
colour. 

I wish  we  had  more  facts  concerning  him,  for  he  must 
have  been  a great  man  and  humorist.  The  story  is 
told  of  Hogarth  that  on  being  commissioned  to  paint  a 
scriptural  picture  of  the  Red  Sea  for  a too  parsimonious 
patron  who  had  beaten  him  down  and  down,  he  rebuked 
him  for  his  meanness  by  producing  a canvas  entirely 
covered  with  red  paint.  But  what  is  this  ? ’’  the  patron 
asked.  The  Red  Sea — sui’ely.”  Where  then  are  the 

Israelites?”  ^‘They  have  all  crossed  over.”  ‘^And 
Pharaoh’s  hosts  ? ” They  are  all  drowned.”  The  story 
is  perhaps  an  invention ; but  a somewhat  similar  joke  is 
credited  to  Jan  Steen.  His  commission  was  the  Flood,  and 
his  picture  when  finished  consisted  of  a sheet  of  water  with 
a Dutch  cheese  in  the  midst  bearing  the  arms  of  Leyden. 
The  cheese  and  the  arms,  he  pointed  out,  proved  that  people 
had  been  on  the  eai*th;  as  for  Noah  and  the  ark,  they 
were  out  of  the  picture. 

Jan  Steens  picture  of  “A  Quaker’s  Funeral”  I have 


JAN  OF  LEYDEN 


113 


not  seen,  but  according  to^Pilkington  it  is  impossible  to 
behold  it  and  refrain  from  laughter.  The  subject  does  not 
strike  one  as  being  in  itself  mirthful. 

A century  earlier  Leyden  had  produced  another  Jan, 
separated  from  Jan  Steen  by  a difference  wide  asunder  as 
the  poles.  Yet  a very  wonderful  man  in  his  brief  season, 
standing  high  among  the  world’s  great  madmen.  I mean 
Jan  Bockelson,  the  Anabaptist,  known  as  Jan  of  Leyden, 
who,  beginning  as  pure  enthusiast,  succumbed,  as  so  many 
a leader  of  women  has  done,  to  the  intoxication  of  authority, 
and  became  the  slave  of  grandiose  ambition  and  excesses. 
Every  country  has  had  its  mock  Messiahs : they  rise 
periodically  in  England,  not  less  at  the  present  day  than 
in  the  darker  ages  (hysteria  being  more  powerful  than 
light) ; yet  the  history  of  none  of-  these  spiritual  monarchs 
can  compare  with  that  of  the  tailor’s  son  of  Leyden. 

The  story  is  told  in  many  places,  but  nowhere  with 
such  dramatic  picturesqueness  as  by  Professor  Karl  Pearson 
in  his  Ethk  of  Freethought  ‘‘  As  the  illegitimate  son 
of  a tailor  in  Leyden,”  says  Professor  Pearson — Jan’s 
mother  was  the  maid  of  his  father’s  wife — his  early  life 
was  probably  a harsh  and  bitter  one.  Very  young  he 
wandered  from  home,  impressed  with  the  miseries  of  his 
class  and  with  a general  feeling  of  much  injustice  in  the 
world.  Four  years  he  spent  in  England  seeing  the  poor 
driven  off  the  land  by  the  sheep  ; then  we  find  him  in 
Flanders,  married,  but  still  in  vague  search  of  the  Eldorado  ; 
again  roaming,  he  visits  Lisbon  and  Liibeck  as  a sailor, 
ever  seeking  and  inquiring.  Suddenly  a new  light  bursts 
upon  him  in  the  teaching  of  Melchior  Hofmann  [the 
Anabaptist] ; he  fills  himself  with  dreams  of  a glorious 
kingdom  on  earth,  the  rule  of  justice  and  of  love.  Still 
a little  while  and  the  prophet  Mathys  crosses  his  path, 

8 


114 


THE  MAKINGS  OP  A FANATIC 


and  tells  him  of  the  New  Sion  and  the  extermination  of 
the  godless.” 

Mathys,  or  Jan  Mathiesen,  was  a baker  of  Haarlem, 
who,  constituted  an  Anabaptist  bishop,  was  preaching  the 
new  gospel  through  the  Netherlands  and  gathering  recruits 
to  the  community  of  God’s  saints  which  had  been  estab- 
lished at  Munster.  ^^Full  of  hope  for  the  future,”  says 
Professor  Pearson,  Jan  sets  out  for  Munster  to  join  the 
saints.  Still  young,  handsome,  imbued  with  a fiery  en- 
thusiasm, actor  by  nature  and  even  by  choice,  he  has  no 
small  influence  on  the  spread  of  Anabaptism  in  that  city. 
The  youth  of  twenty-three  expounds  to  the  followers  of 
Rottmann  the  beauties  of  his  ideal  kingdom  of  the  good 
and  the  true.  With  his  whole  soul  he  preaches  to  them 
the  redemption  of  the  oppressed,  the  destruction  of  tyranny, 
the  community  of  goods,  and  the  rule  of  justice  and 
brotherly  love.  Women  and  maidens  slip  away  to  the 
secret  gatherings  of  the  youthful  enthusiast ; the  glowing 
young  prophet  of  Leyden  becomes  the  centre  of  interest 
in  Munster.  Dangerous,  very  dangerous^ground,  when 
the  pure  of  heart  are  not  around  him;  when  the  spirit 
‘ chosen  by  God  ’ is  to  proclaim  itself  free  of  the  flesh. 

“The  world  has  judged  Jan  harshly,  condemned  him 
to  endless  execration.  It  were  better  to  have  cursed  the 
generations  of  oppression,  the  flood  of  persecution,  which 
forced  the  toiler  to  revolt,  the  Anabaptists  to  madness. 
Under  other  circumstances  the  noble  enthusiasm,  with 
other  surroundings  the  strong  will,  of  Jan  of  Leyden  might 
have  left  a different  mark  on  the  page  of  history.  Dragged 
down  in  this  whirlpool  of  fanaticism,  sensuality,  and  despair, 
we  can  only  look  upon  him  as  a factor  of  the  historic  judg- 
ment, a necessary  actor  in  that  tragedy  of  Munster,  which 
forms  one  of  the  most  solemn  chapters  of  the  Greater  Bible.” 


A KING  OF  RIGHTEOUSNESS 


116 


Gradually  Jan  rose  to  be  head  of  the  saints,  Mathiesen 
having  been  killed,  and  none  other  displaying  so  much 
strength  of  purpose  or  magnetic  enthusiasm.  And  here  his 
mind  gave  way.  Like  so  many  absolute  rulers  before  and 
since,  he  could  not  resist  the  ecstacies  of  supremacy.  To 
resume  Professor  Pearson’s  narrative : The  sovereign  of 

Sion — although  since  the  flesh  is  dead,  gold  to  him  is  but 
as  dung’ — yet  thinks  fit  to  appear  in  all  the  pomp  of 
earthly  majesty.  He  appoints  a court,  of  which  Knipper- 
dollinch  is  chancellor,  and  wherein  there  are  many  officers 
from  chamberlain  to  cook.  He  forms  a body-guard,  whose 
members  are  dressed  in  silk.  Two  pages  wait  upon  the  king, 
one  of  whom  is  a son  of  his  grace  the  bishop  of  Munster. 
The  great  officers  of  state  are  somewhat  wondrously  attired, 
one  breech  red,  the  other  grey,  and  on  the  sleeves  of  their 
coats  are  embroidered  the  arms  of  Sion — the  earth-sphere 
pierced  by  two  crossed  swords,  a sign  of  universal  sway 
and  its  instruments — while  a golden  finger-ring  is  token  of 
their  authority  in  Sion.  The  king  himself  is  magnificently 
arrayed  in  gold  and  purple,  and  as  insignia  of  his  office,  he 
causes  sceptre  and  spurs  of  gold  to  be  made.  Gold  ducats 
are  melted  down  to  form  crowns  for  the  queen  and  him- 
self; and  lastly  a golden  globe  pierced  by  two  swords 
and  surmounted  by  a cross  with  the  words,  ^ A King  of 
Righteousness  o’er  all  ’ is  borne  before  him.  The  attend- 
ants of  the  Chancellor  Knipperdollinch  are  dressed  in  red 
with  the  crest,  a hand  raising  aloft  the  sword  of  justice. 
Nay,  even  the  queen  and  the  fourteen  queenlets  must  have 
a separate  court  and  brilliant  uniforms. 

Thrice  a week  the  king  goes  in  glorious  array  to  the 
market-place  accompanied  by  his  body-guards  and  officers 
of  state,  while  behind  ride  the  fifteen  queens.  On  the 
market-place  stands  a magnificent  throne  with  silken 


116 


MUNSTER  FALLS 


cushions  and  canopy,  whereon  the  tailor-monarch  takes 
his  seat,  and  alongside  him  sits  his  chief  queen.  Knipper- 
dollinch  sits  at  his  feet.  A page  on  his  left  bears  the  book 
of  the  law,  the  Old  Testament ; another  on  his  right  an 
unsheathed  sword.  The  book  denotes  that  he  sits  on  the 
throne  of  David;  the  sword  that  he  is  the  king  of  the 
just,  who  is  appointed  to  exterminate  all  unrighteousness. 
Bannock-Bernt  is  court-chaplain,  and  preaches  in  the 
market-place  before  the  king.  The  sermon  over,  justice 
is  administered,  often  of  the  most  terrible  kind ; and  then 
in  like  state  the  king  and  his  court  return  home.  On  the 
streets  he  is  greeted  with  cries  of:  ^ Hail  in  the  name  of 
the  Lord.  God  be  praised  ! ’ ” 

Meanwhile  underneath  all  this  riot  of  splendour  and 
power  and  sensuality,  the  pangs  of  starvation  were  begin- 
ning to  be  felt.  For  the  army  of  the  bishop  of  Munster 
was  outside  the  city  and  the  siege  was  very  studiously  main- 
tained. The  privations  became  more  and  more  terrible, 
and  more  and  more  terrible  the  means  of  allaying  them. 
The  bodies  of  citizens  that  had  died  were  eaten ; and  then 
men  and  women  and  children  were  killed  in  order  that 
they  might  be  eaten  too.  Under  such  conditions,  is  it 
any  wonder  that  Munster  became  a city  of  the  mad,  mad 
beyond  the  sane  man’s  wildest  dreams  of  excess  ? 

A few  of  the  least  demented  of  Jan’s  followers  at  length 
determined  that  the  tragedy  must  cease,  and  the  city  was 
delivered  into  the  bishop’s  hands.  What  judgment,” 
writes  Professor  Pearson,  his  grace  the  bishop  thinks  fit 
to  pass  on  the  leaders  of  Sion  at  least  deserves  record. 
Rottmann  has  fallen  by  St.  Martin’s  Church,  fighting 
sword  in  hand,  but  Jan  of  Leyden  and  Knipperdollinch 
are  brought  prisoners  before  this  shepherd  of  the  folk. 
Scoffingly  he  asks  Jan:  ‘Art  thou  a king?’  Simple,  yet 


JAN  OF  LEYDEN’S  FATE 


117 


endlessly  deep  the  reply:  ‘Art  thou  a bishop?’  Both 
alike  false  to  their  callings — as  father  of  men  and  shep- 
herd of  souls.  Yet  the  one  cold,  self-seeking  sceptic,  the 
other  ignorant,  passionate,  fanatic  idealist.  ‘ Why  hast 
thou  destroyed  the  town  and  my  folk  ? ’ ‘ Priest,  I have 

not  destroyed  one  little  maid  of  thine.  Thou  hast  again 
thy  town,  and  I can  repay  thee  a hundredfold.’  The 
bishop  demands  with  much  curiosity  how  this  miserable 
captive  can  possibly  repay  him.  ‘ I know  we  must  die, 
and  die  terribly,  yet  before  we  die,  shut  us  up  in  an  iron 
cage,  and  send  us  round  through  the  land,  charge  the 
curious  folk  a few  pence  to  see  us,  and  thou  wilt  soon 
gather  together  all  thy  heart’s  desire.’  The  jest  is  grim, 
but  the  king  of  Sion  has  the  advantage  of  his  grace 
the  bishop.  Then  follows  torture,  but  there  is  little  to 
extract,  for  the  king  still  holds  himself  an  instrument  sent 
by  God — though  it  were  for  the  punishment  of  the  world. 
Sentence  is  read  on  these  men — placed  in  an  iron  cage  they 
shall  be  shown  round  the  bishop’s  diocese,  a tenible  warning 
to  his  subjects,  and  then  brought  back  to  Munster;  there 
with  glowing  pincers  their  flesh  shall  be  torn  from  the  bones, 
till  the  death-stroke  be  given  with  red-hot  dagger  in  throat 
and  heart.  For  the  rest  let  the  mangled  remains  be  placed 
in  iron  cages  swung  from  the  tower  of  St.  Lambert’s  Church. 

“On  the  26th  of  January,  1536,  Jan  Bockelson  and 
Knipperdollinch  meet  their  fate.  A high  scaffolding  is 
erected  in  the  market-place,  and  before  it  a lofty  throne 
for  his  grace  the  bishop,  that  he  may  glut  his  vengeance  to 
the  full.  Let  the  rest  pass  in  silence.  The  most  reliable 
authorities  tell  us  that  the  Anabaptists  remained  calm  and 
firm  to  the  last.  ‘ Art  thou  a king  ? ’ ‘ Art  thou  a bishop  ? ’ 
The  iron  cages  still  hang  on  the  church  tower  at  Munster ; 
placed  as  a warning,  they  have  become  a show ; perhaps 


118 


GERARD  DOU 


some  day  they  will  be  treasured  as  weird  mentors  of  the^ 
truth  which  the  world  has  yet  to  learn  from  the  story  of 
the  Kingdom  of  God  in  Munster.” 

A living  German  artist  of  great  power,  named  Joseph 
Sattler,  too  much  of  whose  time  has  recently  been  given  to 
designing  book-plates,  produced  some  few  years  ago  an  ex- 
traordinary illustrated  history  of  the  Anabaptists  in  Munster. 
Many  artists  have  essayed  to  portray  madness,  but  I know 
of  no  work  more  terrible  than  his. 

We  have  travelled  far  from  Leyden’s  peaceful  studios. 
It  is  time  to  look  at  the  work  of  Gerard  Dou.  Rembrandt 
we  have  seen  was  the  son  of  a miller,  Jan  Steen  of  a bi’ewer  ; 
the  elder  Dou  was  a glazier.  His  son  Gerard  was  born  in 
Leyden  in  1613.  The  father  was  so  far  interested  in  the 
boy’s  gifts  that  he  apprenticed  him  to  an  engraver  when 
he  was  nine.  At  the  age  of  eleven  he  passed  to  the  studio 
of  a painter  on  glass,  and  on  St.  Valentine’s  day,  1628,  he 
became  a pupil  of  Rembrandt.  From  Rembrandt,  how- 
ever, he  seepas  to  have  learned  only  the  charm  of  contrasts 
of  light  and  shade.  None  of  the  great  rugged  strength  of 
the  master  is  to  be  seen  in  his  minute  and  patient  work,  in 
which  the  genius  of  taking  pains  is  always  apparent.  He 
would  frequently,”  says  Ireland,  paint  six  or  seven  days 
on  a hand,  and,  still  more  wonderful,  twice  the  time  on 
the  handle  of  a broom.  . . . The  minuteness  of  his  per- 
formance so  affected  his  sight  that  he  wore  spectacles  at 
the  age  of  thirty.” 

Gerard  Don’s  success  was  not  only  artistic ; it  was  also 
financial.  Rembrandt’s  prices  did  not  compare  with  those 
of  his  pupil,  whose  art  coming  more  within  the  sympa- 
thetic range  and  understanding  of  the  ordinary  man 
naturally  was  more  sought  after  than  the  Titanic  and 
less  comfortable  canvasses  of  the  greg^tei'  craftsman, 


THE  YOUNG  HOUSEKEEPER 

GERARD  DOU 

Fro77i  the  picture  hi  the  Mauritshtiis 


‘‘THE  YOUNG  HOUSEKEEPER” 


119 


Dou  did  exceedingly  well,  one  of  his  patrons  even  paying 
him  a yearly  honorarium  of  a thousand  florins  for  the 
privilege  of  having  the  refusal  of  each  new  picture.  “ The 
Poulterer’s  Shop”  at  our  National  Gallery  is  a perfect 
example  of  his  fastidious  minuteness  and  charm.  But  he 
painted  pictures  also  with  a tenderer  brush.  I give  on  the 
opposite  page  a reproduction  of  the  most  charming  picture 
by  Gerard  Dou  that  I know — “The  Young  Housekeeper” 
at  The  Hague.  This  is  a very  miracle  of  painting  in  every 
inch,  and  yet  the  pains  that  have  been  expended  upon  the 
cabbage  and  the  flsh  are  not  for  a moment  disproportion- 
ate : the  cabbage  and  the  fish,  for  all  their  finish,  remain 
subordinate  and  appropriate  details.  The  picture  is  the 
picture  of  the  mother  and  the  children.  “ The  Night 
School” — No.  795  in  the  Ryks  Museum  at  Amsterdam — 
is,  I believe,  more  generally  admired,  but  “The  Young 
Housekeeper  ” is  the  better.  “ The  Night  School  ” might 
be  described  as  the  work  of  a pocket  Rembrandt ; “ The 
Young  Housekeeper”  is  the  work  of  an  artist  of  rare  in- 
dividuality and  sympathy.  At  the  Wallace  Collection 
may  be  seen  a hermit  by  Dou  quite  in  his  best  nocturnal 
manner. 

Gerard  Dou  died  at  Leyden,  where  he  had  spent  nearly 
all  his  quiet  life,  in  1676.  He  is  buiied  at  St.  Peter’s,  but 
his  grave  does  not  seem  to  be  known  there. 

Dou  had  many  imitators,  some  of  whom  studied  under 
him.  One  of  the  chief  was  Godfried  Schalcken  of  Dort, 
' whose  picture  of  an  “Old  Woman  Scouring  a Pan”  may 
be  seen  in  the  National  Gallery,  while  the  Wallace  Collec- 
tion has  several  examples  of  his  skill.  Schalcken  seems  to 
have  been  a man  of  gi*eat  brusquerie,  if  two  stories  told  by 
Ireland  of  his  sojourn  in  England  are  true.  William  III., 
for  example,  when  sitting  for  his  picture,  with  a candle  in 


120 


THE  TWO  MIERIS 


his  hand,  was  suflFered  by  Schalcken  to  burn  his  fingers. 

One  is  at  a loss,’’  says  Ireland,  “ to  determine  which  was 
most  to  blame,  the  monarch  for  want  of  feeling,  or  the 
painter  of  politeness.  The  following  circumstance,  however, 
will  place  the  deficiency  of  the  latter  beyond  controversy. 
A lady  sitting  for  her  portrait,  who  was  more  admired  for 
a beautiful  hand  than  a handsome  face,  after  the  head  was 
finished,  asked  him  if  she  should  take  off  her  glove,  that  he 
might  insert  the  hand  in  the  picture,  to  which  he  replied, 
he  always  painted  the  hands  from  those  of  his  valet.’'  The 
most  attractive  picture  by  Schalcken  that  I have  seen  is 
a girl  sewing  by  candle  light,  in  the  Wallace  Collection. 
It  pairs  off  with  the  charming  little  Gerard  Dou  at  the 
Ryks— No,  796. 

Dou  said  that  the  Prince  of  his  pupils  ” was  Frans  van 
Mieris  of  Delft,  who  combined  the  manner  and  predilec- 
tions of  his  master  with  those  of  Terburg.  He  was  very 
popular  with  collectors,  but  I do  not  experience  any  great 
joy  in  the  presence  of  his  work,  which,  with  all  its  miracul- 
ous deftness,  is  yet  lacking  in  personal  feeling.  Mieris, 
says  Ireland,  “ was  frequently  paid  a ducat  per  hour  for 
his  works.  His  intimacy  and  friendship  for  Jan  Steen, 
that  excellent  painter  and  bon  vivant,  seems  to  have  led 
him  into  much  inconvenience.  After  a night’s  debauch, 
quitting  Jan  Steen,  he  fell  into  a common  drain ; whence 
he  was  extricated  by  a poor  cobbler  and  his  wife,  and, 
treated  by  them  with  much  kindness,  he  repaid  the  obli- 
gation by  presenting  them  with  a small  picture,  which,  by 
his  recommendation,  was  sold  for  a considerable  sum.” 

The  amazingly  minute  picture  of  The  Poulterer’s 
Shop  ” which  hangs  in  the  National  Gallery  as  a pendant 
to  Don’s  work  with  the  same  title,  is  by  William  van 
Mieris,  the  son  of  Don’s  favourite  pupil.  He  also  was 


BREAKFAST 

GABRIEL  METSU 

From  the  picture  in  the  Ryks  Museum 


GABRIEL  METSU 


121 


born  at  Leyden,  that  teeming  mother  of  painters.  Frans 
van  Mieris,  his  father,  died  at  Leyden  in  1681 ; William 
died  at  Leyden  in  1747. 

Above  the  work  of  Frans  van  Mieris  I would  put  that  of 
Gabriel  Metsu,  another  of  Don’s  pupils,  and  also  a son  of 
Leyden,  where  he  was  born  in  1630.  Upon  Metsu’s  work 
Terburg,  however,  exercised  more  influence  than  did  Gerard 
Dou.  ‘^The  Music  Lesson”  and  “The  Duet”  at  the 
National  Gallery  are  good  examples  of  his  pleasant  paint- 
ing. Even  better  is  his  work  at  the  Wallace  Collection. 
He  died  in  1667  in  Amsterdam,  where  one  of  his  best 
pictures  “ The  Breakfast  ” — No.  1553  at  the  Ryks — may 
be  seen.  There  are  many  fine  examples  at  the  Louvre. 
He  was  always  graceful,  always  charming,  with  a favourite 
model — perhaps  his  wife — the  pleasant  plump  woman  who 
occurs  again  and  again  in  his  work.  She  is  in  “The 
Breakfast  ” (see  the  opposite  page). 

Mention  of  Gerard  Dou  and  his  pupils  reminds  me  of 
a little-known  satire  on  art-criticism  written  by  “ Vathek  ” 
Beckford . Biographical  Memoirs  of  Extraordinary  Painters 
it  is  called,  among  the  painters  being  Sucrewasser  of  Vienna, 
and  Watersouchy  of  Amsterdam.  It  is  Watersouchy  who 
concerns  us,  for  he  was  a Dutch  figure  painter  who  carried 
the  art  of  detail  farther  than  it  had  been  carried  before. 
I quote  a little  from  Beckford’s  account  of  this  genius,  since 
it  helps  to  bring  back  a day  when  the  one  thing  most 
desired  by  the  English  collector  was  a Dutch  picture — still 
life,  boors,  cows,  ruins,  or  domestic  interior — no  matter 
what  subject  or  how  mechanically  painted  so  long  as  it 
was  done  minutely  enough. 

“ Whilst  he  remained  at  Amsterdam,  young  Watersouchy 
was  continually  improving,  and  arrived  to  such  perfection 
in  copying  point  lace,  that  Mierhop  entreated  his  father 


122 


THE  GREAT  WATERSOUCHY 


•< 

to  cultivate  these  talents,  and  to  place  his  son  under  the 
patronage  of  Gerard  Dow,  ever  renowned  for  the  exquisite 
finish  of  his  pieces.  Old  Watersouchy  stared  at  the  pro- 
posal, and  solemnly  asked  his  wife,  to  whose  opinion  he 
always  paid  a deference,  whether  painting  was  a genteel 
profession  for  their  son.  Mierhop,  who  overheard  their 
conversation,  smiled  disdainfully  at  the  question,  and^ 
Madam  Watersouchy  answered,  that  she  believed  it  was 
one  of  your  liberal  arts.  In  few  words,  the  father  was 
persuaded,  and  Gerard  Dow,  then  resident  at  Leyden, 
prevailed  upon  to  receive  the  son  as  a disciple. 

Our  young  artist  had  no  sooner  his  foot  within  his 
master’s  apartment,  than  he  found  every  object  in  harmony 
with  his  own  disposition.  The  colours  finely  ground,  and 
ranged  in  the  neatest  boxes,  the  pencils  so  delicate  as  to  be 
almost  imperceptible,  the  varnish  in  elegant  phials,  the 
easel  j ust  where  it  ought  to  be,  filled  him  with  agreeable 
sensations,  and  exalted  ideas  of  his  master’s  merit.  Gerard 
Dow  on  his  side  was  equally  pleased,  when  he  saw  him 
moving  about  with  all  due  circumspection,  and  noticing 
his  little  prettinesses  at  every  step.  He  therefore  began  his 
pupil’s  initiation  with  great  alacrity,  first  teaching  him 
cautiously  to  open  the  cabinet  door,  lest  any  particles  of 
dust  should  be  dislodged  and  fix  upon  his  canvas,  and 
advising  him  never  to  take  up  his  pencil  without  sitting 
motionless  a few  minutes,  till  every  mote  casually  floating 
in  the  air  should  be  settled.  Such  instructions  were  not 
thrown  away  upon  Watersouchy:  he  treasured  them  up, 
and  refined,  if  possible,  upon  such  refinements.” 

In  course  of  time  Watersouchy  gained  the  patronage  of 
a rich  but  frugal  banker  named  Baise-la-Main,  who  seeing 
his  value,  arranged  for  the  painter  to  occupy  a room  in  his 
house,  “ Nobody,”  Beckford  continues,  but  the  master 


BECKFORD’S  SATIRE 


123 


of  the  house  was  allowed  to  enter  this  sanctuary.  Here 
our  artist  remained  six  weeks  in  grinding  his  colours,  com- 
posing an  admirable  varnish,  and  preparing  his  canvass,  for 
a performance  he  intended  as  his  chef  d' oeuvre.  A fort- 
night more  passed  before  he  decided  upon  a subject.  At 
last  he  determined  to  commemorate  the  opulence  of 
Monsieur  Baise-la-Main,  by  a perspective  of  his  counting- 
house.  He  chose  an  interesting  moment,  when  heaps  of 
gold  lay  glittering  on  the  counter,  and  citizens  of  distinc- 
tion were  soliciting  a secure  repository  for  their  plate  and 
jewels.  A Muscovite  wrapped  in  fur,  and  an  Italian 
glistening  in  brocade,  occupied  the  foreground.  The  eye 
glancing  over  these  figures  highly  finished,  was  directed 
through  the  windows  of  the  shop  into  the  area  in  front  of 
the  cathedral ; of  which,  however,  nothing  was  discovered, 
except  two  sheds  before  its  entrance,  where  several  barbers 
were  represented  at  their  different  occupations.  An  effect 
of  sunshine  upon  the  counter  discovered  every  coin  that 
was  scattered  upon  its  surface.  On  these  the  painter  had 
bestowed  such  intense  labour,  that  their  very  legends  were 
distinguishable. 

It  would  be  in  vain  to  attempt  conveying,  by  words, 
an  idea  adequate  to  this  chef  d! oeuvre^  which  must  have 
been  seen  to  have  been  duly  admired.  In  three  months  it 
was  far  advanced  ; during  which  time  our  artist  employed 
his  leisure  hours  in  practising  jigs  and  minuets  on  the 
violin,  and  writing  the  first  chapter  of  Genesis  on  a watch- 
paper,  which  he  adorned  with  a miniature  of  Adam  and 
Eve,  so  exquisitely  finished,  that  every  ligament  in  their 
fig-leaves  was  visible.  This  little  jeu  d esprit  he  presented 
to  Madam  Merian.” 

Leyden’s  earliest  painter  was  Lucas  Jacobz,  known  as 
Lucas  van,  Leyden,  who  was  born  in  1494,  He  painted 


124 


THE  SIEGE  OF  LEYDEN 

in  oil,  in  distemper  and  on  glass;  he  took  his  subjects 
from  nature  and  from  scripture ; he  engraved  better  than 
he  painted ; and  he  was  the  friend  of  Dlirer.  Leyden 
possesses  his  triptych,  ^‘The  Last  Judgment,”  which  to  me 
is  interesting  rather  as  a piece  of  pioneering  than  as  a 
work  apart.  After  settling  for  a while  at  Middelburg  and 
Antwerp,  he  returned  to  Leyden,  where  he  died  in  1533. 

In  spite  of  her  record  as  the  mother  of  great  painters, 
Leyden  treats  pictures  with  some  indifference.  The  Muni- 
cipal Museum  has  little  that  is  of  value.  Of  most  interest 
perhaps  is  the  Peter  van  Veen,  opposite  ^^The  Last  Judg- 
ment,” representing  a scene  in  the  siege  of  Leyden  by  the 
Spaniards  under  Valdez  in  1574,  which  has  a companion 
upstairs  by  Van  Bree,  depicting  the  Burgomaster’s  heroic 
feat  of  opportunism  in  the  same  period  of  stress. 

Adrian  Van  der  Werf  was  this  Burgomaster’s  name  (his 
monument  stands  in  the  Van  der  Werf  park),  and  nothing 
but  his  courage  and  address  at  a critical  moment  saved  the 
city.  Motley  tells  the  story  in  a fine  passage.  Mean- 
time, the  besieged  city  was  at  its  last  gasp.  The  burghers 
had  been  in  a state  of  uncertainty  for  many  days ; being 
aware  that  the  fleet  had  set  forth  for  their  relief,  but 
knowing  full  well  the  thousand  obstacles  which  it  had  to 
surmount.  They  had  guessed  its  progress  by  the  illumina- 
tion from  the  blazing  villages ; they  had  heard  its  salvos 
of  artillery  on  its  arrival  at  North  Aa ; but  since  then,  all 
had  been  dark  and  mournful  again,  hope  and  fear,  in 
sickening  alternation,  distracting  every  breast.  They  knew 
that  the  wind  was  unfavourable,  and,  at  the  dawn  of  each 
day,  every  eye  was  turned  wistfully  to  the  vanes  of  the 
steeples.  So  long  as  the  easterly  breeze  prevailed,  they  felt, 
as  they  anxiously  stood  on  towers  and  house-tops  that 
they  must  look  in  vain  for  the  welcome  ocean.  Yet,  while 


FAMINE 


125 


thus  patiently  waiting,  they  were  literally  starving;  for 
even  the  misery  endured  at  Harlem  had  not  reached  that 
depth  and  intensity  of  agony  to  which  Leyden  was  now 
reduced.  Bread,  maltcake,  horse-flesh,  had  entirely  dis- 
appeared ; dogs,  cats,  rats,  and  other  vermin  were  esteemed 
luxuries.  A small  number  of  cows,  kept  as  long  as  possible, 
for  their  milk,  still  remained ; but  a few  were  killed  from 
day  to  day,  and  distributed  in  minute  proportions,  hardly 
sufficient  to  support  life  among  the  famishing  population. 
Starving  wretches  swarmed  daily  around  the  shambles  where 
these  cattle  were  slaughtered,  contending  for  any  morsel 
which  might  fall,  and  lapping  eagerly  the  blood  as  it  ran 
along  the  pavement ; while  the  hides,  chopped  and  boiled, 
were  greedily  devoured. 

Women  and  children,  all  day  long,  were  seen  search- 
ing gutters  and  dung  hills  for  morsels  of  food,  which  they 
disputed  fiercely  with  the  famishing  dogs.  The  green 
leaves  were  stripped  from  the  trees,  every  living  herb  was 
converted  into  human  food,  but  these  expedients  could 
not  avert  starvation.  The  daily  mortality  was  frightful, — 
infants  starved  to  death  on  the  maternal  breasts,  which 
famine  had  parched  and  withered  ; mothers  dropped  dead 
in  the  streets,  with  their  dead  children  in  their  arms. 

In  many  a house  the  watchmen,  in  their  rounds,  found 
a whole  family  of  corpses,  father,  mother  and  children, 
side  by  side ; for  a disorder  called  the  plague,  naturally 
engendered  of  hardship  and  famine,  now  came,  as  if  in  kind- 
ness, to  abridge  the  agony  of  the  people.  The  pestilence 
stalked  at  noonday  through  the  city,  and  the  doomed  in- 
habitants fell  like  grass  beneath  it  scythe.  From  six 
thousand  to  eight  thousand  human  beings  sank  before  this 
scourge  alone,  yet  the  people  resolutely  held  out — women 
and  men  mutually  encouraging  each  other  to  resist  the 


126 


MAYOR  AND  HERO 


entrance  of  their  foreign  foe — an  evil  more  horrible  than 
pest  or  famine.^ 

The  missives  from  Valdez,  who  saw  more  vividly  than 
the  besieged  could  do,  the  uncertainty  of  his  own  position, 
now  poured  daily  into  the  city,  the  enemy  becoming  more 
prodigal  of  his  vows,  as  he  felt  that  the  ocean  might  yet 
save  the  victims  from  his  grasp.  The  inhabitants,  in  their 
ignorance,  had  gradually  abandoned  their  hopes  of  relief, 
but  they  spurned  the  summons  to  surrender.  Leyden  was 
sublime  in  its  despair.  A few  murmurs  were,  however, 
occasionally  heard  at  the  steadfastness  of  the  magistrates, 
and  a dead  body  was  placed  at  the  door  of  the  burgomaster, 
as  a silent  witness  against  his  inflexibility.  A party  of  the 
more  faint-hearted  even  assailed  the  heroic  Adrian  Van  der 
Werf  with  threats  and  reproaches  as  he  passed  through 
the  streets. 

‘^A  crowd  had  gathered  around  him,  as  he  reached  a 
triangular  place  in  the  centre  of  the  town,  into  which  many 
of  the  principal  streets  emptied  themselves,  and  upon  one 
side  of  which  stood  the  church  of  St.  Pancras,  with  its  high 
brick  tower  surmounted  by  two  pointed  turrets,  and  with 
two  ancient  lime  trees  at  its  entrance.  There  stood  the 
burgomaster,  a tall,  haggard,  imposing  figure,  with  dark 
visage,  and  a tranquil  but  commanding  eye.  He  waved 
his  broad-leaved  felt  hat  for  silence,  and  then  exclaimed,  in 
language  which  has  been  almost  literally  preserved,  ‘ What 
would  ye,  my  friends  ? Why  do  ye  murmur  that  we  do 
not  break  our  vows  and  surrender  our  city  to  the  Spaniards  ? 
— a fate  more  horrible  than  the  agony  which  she  now  en- 
dures. I tell  you  I have  made  an  oath  to  hold  this  city, 

^ Mendoza’s  estimate  of  the  entire  population  as  numbering  only  four- 
teen thousand  before  the  siege  is  evidently  erroneous.  It  was  probably 
nearer  fifty  thousand.^ — Motley. 


THE  ORIGIN  OP  THE  UNIVERSITY  127 


and  may  God  give  me  strength  to  keep  my  oath ! I can 
die  but  once ; whether  by  your  hands,  the  enemy’s,  or  by 
the  hand  of  God.  My  own  fate  is  indifferent  to  me,  not  so 
that  of  the  city  intrusted  to  my  care.  I know  that  we 
shall  starve  if  not  soon  relieved  ; but  starvation  is  prefer- 
able to  the  dishonoured  death  which  is  the  only  alternative. 
Your  menaces  move  me  not;  my  life  is  at  your  disposal; 
here  is  my  sword,  plunge  it  into  my  breast,  and  divide  my 
flesh  among  you.  Take  my  body  to  appease  your  hunger, 
but  expect  no  surrender,  so  long  as  I remain  alive.’” 

Leyden  was  at  last  relieved  by  William  of  Orange,  who 
from  his  sick-bed  had  arranged  for  the  piercing  of  the 
dykes  and  letting  in  enough  water  to  swim  his  ships  and 
rout  the  Spaniards. 

Out  of  tribulation  comes  good.  For  their  constancy 
and  endurance  in  the  siege  the  Prince  offered  the  people 
of  Leyden  one  of  two  benefits — exemption  from  taxes  or 
the  establishment  of  a University.  They  took  the  Uni- 
versity. 


■ . ' ^ ' ■ *'’•■  • ' i/  ^<-1l’;’' 

- ' ■ ' * ,- '1't' 


CHAPTER  IX 

HAARLEM 


Tulip  culture — Early  speculation — The  song  of  the  tulip— Dutch  garden- 
ing new  and  old — A horticultural  pilgrimage — The  Haarlem  dunes 
— Gardens  without  secrets — Zaandvoort — Through  Noord-Holland 
and  its  charms — The  church  of  St.  Bavo — Whitewash  v.  Mystery — 
— The  true  father  of  the  Reformation — Printing  paves  the  way — ^The 
Hout — Laocoon  and  his  sons — The  siege  of  Haarlem — Dutch  forti- 
tude— The  real  Dutch  courage — The  implacable  Alva — Broken 
promises — A tonic  for  Philip — The  women  of  Haarlem — A pledge  to 
mothers — The  great  organ — Three  curious  inhabitants — The  Teyler 
Museum — Frans  Hals — A king  of  abundance — Regent  pieces — The 
secondary  pictures  in  the  Museum — Dirck  Hals — Van  der  Heist — 
Adrian  Brouwer — Nicolas  Berchem — Ruisdael — The  lost  mastery — 
Echoes  of  the  past. 


Haarlem  being  the  capital  of  the  tulip  country, 
the  time  to  visit  it  is  the  spring.  To  travel  from 
Leyden  to  Haarlem  by  rail  in  April  is  to  pass  through 
floods  of  colour,  reaching  their  finest  quality  about  Hillegom. 
The  beds  are  too  formal,  too  exactly  parallel,  to  be  beauti- 
ful, except  as  sheets  of  scarlet  or  yellow ; for  careless  beauty 
one  must  look  to  the  heaps  of  blossoms  piled  up  in  the 
corners  (later  to  be  used  on  the  beds  as  a fertiliser),  which 
are  always  beautiful,  and  doubly  so  when  reflected  in  a canal. 
From  a balloon,  in  the  flowering  season,  the  tulip  gardens 
must  look  like  patchwork  quilts. 

Tulip  Sunday,  which  represents  the  height  of  the  season 
(corresponding  to  Chestnut  Sunday  at  Bushey  Park)  is  about 

(128) 


THE  TURF-MARKET,  HAARLEM 


TULIPS 


the  third  Sunday  in  April.  One  should  be  in  Holland  then. 
It  is  no  country  for  hot  weather : it  has  no  shade,  the  trains 
become  unbearable,  and  the  canals  are  very  unpleasant.  But 
in  spring  it  is  always  fresh. 

Tulip  cultivation  is  now  a steady  humdrum  business, 
very  different  from  the  early  days  of  the  fashion  for  the 
flower,  in  the  seventeenth  century,  when  speculators  lost 
their  heads  over  bulbs  as  thoroughly  as  over  South-Sea 
stock  in  the  great  Bubble  period.  Thousands  of  florins 
were  given  for  a single  bulb.  The  bulb,  however,  did  not 
always  change  hands,  often  serving  merely  as  a gambling 
basis ; it  even  may  not  have  existed  at  all.  Among  genuine 
connoisseurs  genuine  sales  would  of  course  be  made,  and  it 
is  recorded  that  a Semper  Augustus  ” bulb  was  once 
bought  for  13,000  florins.  At  last  the  Government  inter- 
fered ; gambling  was  put  down  ; and  Semper  Augustus  ” 
fell  to  fifty  florins. 

It  was  to  Haarlem,  it  will  be  remembered,  that  the  fair 
Frisian  travelled  with  Cornelius  van  Baerle’s  solitary  flower 
in  La  Tulipe  Noire^  and  won  the  prize  of  100,000  florins 
offered  for  a blossom  of  pure  nigritude  by  the  Horticultural 
Society  of  Haarlem.  Hence  the  addition  of  the  Tulipa 
Nigra  Rosa  Baerleensis  to  the  list  of  desirable  bulbs.  Dumas 
puts  into  the  mouth  of  Cornelius  a very  charming  song  of 
the  tulip : — 


Nous  sommes  les  filles  du  feu  secret, 

Du  feu  qui  circule  dans  les  veines  de  la  terre ; 

Nous  sommes  les  filles  de  Taurore  et  de  la  rosee,' 

Nous  sommes  les  filles  de  Fair, 

Nous  sommes  les  filles  de  I’eau ; 

Mais  nous  sommes  avant  tout  les  filles  du  ciel. 

The  Dutch  are  now  wholly  practical.  Their  reputation 
as  gardeners  has  become  a commercial  one,  resting  upon 
9 


130 


THE  FORMAL  GARDEN 


the  fortunate  discovery  that  the  tulip  and  the  hyacinth 
thrive  in  the  sandy  soil  about  Haarlem.  For  flowers  as 
flowers  they  seem  to  me  to  care  little  or  nothing.  Their 
cottages  have  no  pretty  confusion  of  blossoms  as  in  our 
villages.  You  never  see  the  cottager  at  work  among  his 
roses;  once  his  necessary  labours  are  over,  he  smokes 
and  talks  to  his  neighbours  : to  grow  flowers  for  aesthetic 
reasons  were  too  ornamental,  too  unproductive  a hobby. 
^Esthetically  the  Dutch  are  dead,  or  are  alive  only  in  the 
matter  of  green  paint,  which  they  use  with  such  charming 
effect  on  their  houses,  their  mills  and  their  boats.  What 
is  pretty  is  old — as  indeed  is  the  case  in  our  own  country, 
if  we  except  gardens.  Modern  Dutch  architecture  is 
without  attraction,  modern  Delft  porcelain  a thing  to  cry 
over. 

If  any  one  would  know  how  an  old  formal  Dutch  garden 
looked,  there  is  a model  one  at  the  back  of  the  Ryks 
Museum  in  Amsterdam.  But  the  art  is  no  more  practised. 
A few  circular  beds  in  the  lawn,  surrounded  by  high  wire 
netting — that  is  for  the  most  part  the  modern  notion  of 
gardening.  In  an  interesting  report  of  a visit  paid  to  the 
Netherlands  and  France  in  1817  by  the  secretary  of  the 
Caledonia  Horticultural  Society  and  some  congenial  com- 
panions, may  be  read  excellent  descriptions  of  old  Dutch 
gardening,  which  even  then  was  a thing  of  the  past.  Here 
is  the  account  of  a typical  formal  garden,  near  Utrecht : 
The  large  divisions  of  the  garden  are  made  by  tall  and 
thick  hedges  of  beech,  hornbeam,  and  oak,  variously  shaped, 
having  been  tied  to  frames  and  thus  trained,  with  the  aid 
of  the  shears,  to  the  desired  form.  The  smaller  divisions 
are  made  by  hedges  of  yew  and  box,  which  in  thickness  and 
density  resemble  walls  of  brick.  Grottoes  and  fountains 
are  some  of  the  principal  ornaments.  The  grottoes  are 


HAARLEM’S  DUNES 


131 


adorned  with  masses  of  calcareous  stuff,  corals  and  shells, 
some  of  them  apparently  from  the  East  Indies,  others 
natives  of  our  own  seas.  The  principal  grotto  is  large,  and 
studded  with  thousands  of  crystals  and  shells.  We  were 
told  that  its  construction  was  the  labour  of  twelve  years. 
The  fountains  are  of  various  devices,  and  though  old,  some 
of  them  were  still  capable  of  being  put  in  action.  Frogs 
and  lizards  placed  at  the  edgings  of  the  walks,  and  spouting 
water  to  the  risk  of  passengers,  were  not  quite  so  agreeable  ; 
and  other  figures  were  still  in  worse  taste. 

There  is  a long  berceau  walk  of  beech,  with  numerous 
windows  or  openings  in  the  leafy^  side  wall,  and  many 
statues  and  busts,  chiefly  of  Italian  marble,  some  of  them 
of  exquisite  workmanship.  Several  large  urns  and  vases 
certainly  do  honour  to  the  sculptor.  The  subjects  of  the 
bas-relief  ornaments  are  the  histories  of  Saul  and  David, 
and  of  Esther  and  Ahasuerus.’’ 

I saw  no  old  Dutch  garden  in  Holland  which  seemed  to 
me  so  attractive  as  that  at  Levens  in  Westmorland. 

It  is  important  at  Haarlem  to  take  a drive  over  the 
dunes — the  billowy,  grassy  sand  hills  which  stretch  between 
the  city  and  the  sea.  If  it  is  in  April  one  can  begin  the 
drive  by  passing  among  every  variety  of  tulip  and  hyacinth, 
through  air  made  sweet  and  heavy  by  these  flowers.  Just 
outside  Haarlem  the  road  passes  the  tiniest  deer  park  that 
ever  I saw — with  a great  house,  great  trees,  a lawn  and  a 
handful  of  deer  all  packed  as  close  as  they  can  be.  Now 
and  then  one  sees  a stork'^s  nest  high  on  a pole  before  a 
house. 

On  leaving  the  green  and  luxuriant  flat  country  a 
climbing  pave  road  winds  in  and  out  among  the  pines  on 
the  edge  of  the  dunes ; past  little  villas,  belonging  chiefly 
to  Amsterdam  business  men,  each  surrounded  by  a naked 


132 


VILLA  NAMES 


garden  with  the  merest  suggestion  of  a boundary.  For  the 
Dutch  do  not  like  walls  or  hedges.  This  level  open  land 
having  no  natural  secrecy,  it  seems  as  if  its  inhabitants  had 
decided  there  should  be  no  artificial  secrecy  either.  When 
they  sit  in  their  gardens  they  like  to  be  seen.  An  English- 
man’s first  care  when  he  plans  a country  estate  is  not  to  be 
overlooked ; a Dutchman  would  cut  down  every  tree  that 
intervened  between  his  garden  chair  and  the  high  road. 

Fun  has  often  been  made  of  the  names  which  the 
Dutch  merchants  give  to  their  country  houses,  but  they 
seem  to  me  often  to  be  chosen  with  more  thought  than 
those  of  similar  villas  in  our  country.  Here  are  a few 
specimens : Buiten  Gedachten  (Beyond  Expectation),  0ns 
Genoegen  (Our  Contentment),  Lust  en  Rust  (Pleasure  and 
Rest),  Niet  Zoo  Quaalyk  (Not  so  Bad),  Myn  Genegenhied 
is  Voldaan  (My  Desire  is  Satisfied),  Mijn  Lust  en  Leven  (My 
Pleasure  and  Life),  Vriendschap  en  Gezelschap  (Friendship 
and  Sociability),  Vreugde  bij  Vrede  (Joy  with  Peace), 
Groot  Genoeg  (Large  Enough),  Buiten  Zorg  (Without 
Care).  These  names  at  any  rate  convey  ^ntiments  which 
we  may  take  to  express  their  owners’  true  feelings  in  their 
owners’  own  language  ; and  as  such  I prefer  them  to  the 
Chatsworths  ” and  Belle-vues,”  Cedars  ” and  Towers,” 
with  which  the  suburbs  of  London  teem.  In  a small  inland 
street  in  Brighton  the  other  day  I noticed  a Wave  Crest 
The  dunes  extend  for  miles : an  empty  wilderness  of 
sand  with  the  grey  North  Sea  beyond.  From  the  high 
points  one  sees  inland  not  only  Haarlem,  just  below,  but 
the  domes  and  spires  of  Amsterdam  beyond. 

One  may  return  to  Haarlem  by  way  of  Bloemendaal, 
a green  valley  with  shady  walks  and  a good  hotel;  or 
extend  the  drive  to  Haarlem’s  watering-place  Zaandvoort, 
which  otherwise  can  be  gained  by  steam-tram,  and  where, 


THE  GROOTE  KERK 
JOHANNES  BOSBOOM 


DUTCH  ENGLISH 


133 


says  the  author  of  Through  Noord- Holland^  the  billowing 
is  strong  and  strengthening”.  The  same  author  tells  us 
also  that  the  pennies  and  asses  have  a separated  standing- 
place,  whilst  severe  stipulations  warrant  the  bathers  for 
trouble  of  the  animals  and  their  driver”. 

Of  this  book  I ought  perhaps  to  say  more,  for  I am 
greatly  indebted  to  it.  Most  of  the  larger  towns  of  Hol- 
land have  guides,  and  for  the  most  part  they  are  written 
in  good  English,  albeit  of  Dutch  extraction ; but  Through 
Noord-Holland  is  an  agreeable  exception  in  that  it  covers 
all  the  ground  between  Amsterdam  and  the  Helder,  and 
is  constructed  in  a peculiar  sport  of  Babel.  In  Dutch  it  is 
I have  no  doubt  an  ordinary  guide-book ; in  English  it  is 
something  far  more  precious.  The  following  extract  from 
the  preface  to  the  second  edition  ought  to  be  quoted  before 
I borrow  further  from  its  pages  : — 

Being  completed  with  the  necessary  alterations  and  corrections  I send 
it  into  the  world  for  the  second  time.  As  it  will  be  published  besides  in 
Dutch  also  in  French  and  English,  the  aim  of  the  edition  will  surely  be 
favoured,  and  our  poor  misappreciated  country  that  so  often  is  regarded 
with  contempt  by  our  countrymen  as  well  as  by  foreigners  will  soon  be 
an  attraction  for  tourists.  For  were  not  it  those  large  extensive  quiet 
heatheries  those  rustling  green  woods  and  those  quiet  low  meadows 
which  inspired  our  great  painters  to  bring  their  fascinating  landscapes  on 
the  cloth  ? Had  not  that  bloomy  sky  and  that  sunny  mysterious  light, 
those  soft  green  meadows  with  their  multi-coloured  flowers,  through 
which  the  river  is  streaming  as  a silver  band,  had  not  all  this  a quieting 
influence  to  the  agitated  mind  of  many  of  us,  did  not  it  give  the  quiet 
rest  and  did  not  it  whisper  to  you ; here  . . . here  is  it  good  ? And  for 
this  our  country  we  want  to  be  a reliable  guide  by  the  directions  of  which 
we  can  savely  start. 

With  Zaandvoort  we  may  associate  Dirck  van  Santvoort 
who  painted  the  portrait  of  the  curious  girl — No.  2133  at 
’he  Ryks  Museum — reproduced  opposite  page  236.  Of 
the  painter  very  little  is  known.  He  belongs  to  the  great 


134 


THE  CHURCH  REPELLENT 


period,  flourishing  in  the  middle  of  the  seventeenth  century 
— and  that  is  all.  But  he  had  a very  cunning  hand  and 
an  interesting  mind,  as  the  few  pictures  to  his  name  attest. 
In  the  same  room  at  the  Ryks  Museum  where  the  portrait 
hangs  is  a large  group  of  ladies  and  gentlemen,  all  wearing 
some  of  the  lace  which  he  dearly  loved  to  paint.  And  in 
one  of  the  recesses  of  the  Gallery  of  Honour  is  a quaint 
little  lady  from  his  delicate  brush — No.  2131 — well  worth 
study. 

Haarlem’s  great  church,  which  is  dedicated  to  St.  Bavo, 
is  one  of  the  finest  in  Holland.  All  that  is  needed  to  make 
it  perfect  is  an  infusion  of  that  warmth  and  colour  which 
once  it  possessed  but  of  which  so  few  traces  have  been 
allowed  to  remain.  The  Dutch  Protestants,  as  I remarked 
at  Utrecht,  have  shown  singular  efficiency  in  denuding 
religion  of  its  external  graces  and  charm.  There  is  no 
church  so  beautiful  but  they  would  reduce  it  to  bleak  and 
arid  cheerlessness.  Place  even  the  cathedral  of  Chartres 
in  a Dutch  market-place,  and  it  would  te  a whitewashed 
desert  in  a week,  while  little  shops  and  houses  would  be 
built  against  its  sacred  walls.  There  is  hardly  a great 
church  in  Holland  but  has  some  secular  domicile  clinging 
like  a barnacle  to  its  sides. 

The  attitude  of  the  Dutch  to  their  churches  is  in  fact 
very  much  that  of  Quakers  to  their  meeting-houses — even 
to  the  retention  of  hats.  But  whereas  it  is  reasonable  for 
a Quaker,  having  made  for  himself  as  plain  a rectangular 
building  as  he  can,  to  attach  no  sanctity  to  it,  there  is  an 
incongruity  when  the  same  attitude  is  maintained  amid 
beautiful  Gothic  arches.  The  result  is  that  Dutch  churches 
are  more  than  chilling.  In  the  simplest  English  village 
church  one  receives  some  impression  of  the  friendliness  of 
religion  ; but  in  Holland — of  course  I speak  as  a stranger 


THE  FORERUNxNER  OP  ERASMUS  135 

and  a foreigner — religion  seems  to  be  a cold  if  not  a re- 
pellent thing. 

One  result  is  that  on  looking  back  over  one’s  travels 
through  Holland  it  is  almost  impossible  to  disentangle  in 
the  memory  one  whitewashed  church  from  another.  They 
have  a common  monotony  of  internal  aridity  : one  distin- 
guishes them,  if  at  all,  by  some  accidental  possession — 
Gouda,  for  example,  by  its  stained  glass  ; Haarlem  by  its 
organ,  and  the  swinging  ships ; Delft  by  the  tomb  of 
William  the  Silent;  Utrecht  by  the  startling  absence  of 
an  entrance  fee. 

At  Haarlem,  as  it  happens,  one  is  peculiarly  able  to 
study  cause  and  effect  in  this  matter  of  Protestant  bleak- 
ness, since  there  stands  before  the  door  of  this  wonderful 
church,  once  a Roman  Catholic  temple,  drenched,  I doubt 
not,  in  mystery  and  colour,  a certain  significant  statue. 

To  Erasmus  of  Rotterdam  is  generally  given  the  parent- 
age of  the  Reformation.  Whatever  his  motives,  Erasmus 
stands  as  the  forerunner  of  Luther.  But  Erasmus  had  his 
forerunner  too,  the  discoverer  of  printing.  For  had  not  a 
means  of  rapidly  multiplying  and  cheapening  books  been 
devised,  the  people,  who  were  after  all  the  back-bone  of  the 
Reformation,  would  never  have  had  the  opportunity  of 
themselves  reading  the  Bible — either  the  Vulgate  or 
Erasmus’s  New  Testament — and  thus  seeing  for  themselves 
how  wide  was  the  gulf  fixed  between  Christ  and  the 
Christians.  It  was  the  discovery  of  this  discrepancy  which 
prepared  them  to  stand  by  the  reformers,  and,  by  support- 
ing them  and  urging  them  on,  assist  them  to  victory. 

Stimulated  by  the  desire  to  be  level  with  Rome  for  his 
own  early  fetters,  and  desiring  also  an  antagonist  worthy 
of  his  satirical  powers,  Erasmus  (or  so  I think)  hit  inde- 
pendently upon  the  need  for  a revised  Bible.  But  Luther 


136 


GUTENBURG  OR  COSTER  ? 


to  a large  extent  was  the  outcome  of  his  times  and  of 
popular  feeling.  A spokesman  was  needed,  and  Luther 
stepped  forward.  The  inventor  of  printing  made  the  way 
possible  ; Erasmus  showed  the  way  ; Luther  took  it. 

Now  the  honour  of  inventing  printing  lies  between  two 
claimants,  Laurens  Janszoon  Coster,  of  Haarlem  (the 
original  of  this  statue)  and  Gutenburg  of  Mayence.  The 
Dutch  like  to  think  ^that  Coster  was  the  man,  and  that  his 
secret  was  sold  to  Gutenburg  by  his  servant  Faust.  Be 
that  as  it  may — and  the  weight  of  evidence  is  in  favour  of 
Gutenburg — it  is  interesting  as  one  stands  by  the  statue 
of  Coster  under  the  shadow  of  Haarlem’s  great  church  to 
think  that  this  was  perhaps  the  true  parent  of  that  great 
upheaval,  the  true  pavior  of  the  way. 

Whatever  Coster’s  claim  to  priority  may  be,  he  certainly 
was  a printer,  and  it  is  only  fitting  that  Haarlem  should 
possess  so  fine  a library  of  early  books  and  MSS.  as  it  does. 

Another  monument  to  Coster  is  to  be  seen  in  the  Hout, 
a wood  of  which  Haarlem  is  very  proud.  It  has  a fine 
avenue  called  the  Spanjaards  Laan,  and  is  a very  pleasant 
shady  place  in  summer,  hardly  inferior  to  the  Bosch  at  The 
Hague.  “ The  delightful  walks  of  the  Hout,”  says  the 
author  of  Through  Noord- Holland^  ‘‘  and  the  caressing  song 
of  the  nightingale  and  other  birds,  do  not  only  invite  the 
Haarlemmers  to  it,  but  the  citizens  of  the  neighbouring 
towns  as  well.” 

On  the  border  of  the  wood  is  a pavilion  which  holds 
the  collections  of  Colonial  curiosities.  In  front  of  the 
pavilion  (I  quote  again  from  Through  Noord-Holland^ 
which  is  invaluable),  “ stands  a casting  of  Laskson  and  his 
sons  to  a knot,  which  has  been  manufactured  in  the  last 
centuries  before  Christ.  The  original  has  been  digged  up 
at  Rome  in  1500.”  Shade  of  Lessing  ! 


THE  SIEGE 


137 


The  cannon-ball  embedded  in  the  wall  of  the  church, 
which  the  sacristan  shows  with  so  much  interest,  recalls 
Haarlem’s  great  siege  in  1572 — a siege  notable  in  the 
history  of  warfare  for  the  courage  and  endurance  of  the 
townspeople  against  temble  odds.  The  story  is  worth 
telling  in  full,  but  I have  not  space  and  Motley  is  very 
accessible.  But  I sketch,  with  his  assistance,  its  salient 
features. 

The  attack  began  in  mid-winter,  when  Haarlem  Mere, 
a great  lake  in  the  east  which  has  since  been  drained  and 
poldered,  was  frozen  over.  For  some  time  a dense  fog 
covered  it,  enabling  loads  of  provisions  and  arms  to  be 
safely  conveyed  into  the  city. 

Don  Frederic,  the  son  of  the  Duke  of  Alva,  who  com- 
manded the  Spanish,  began  with  a success  that  augured 
well,  a force  of  4,000  men  which  marched  from  Leyden 
under  De  la  Marck  being  completely  routed.  Among  the 
captives  taken  by  the  Spaniards,  says  Motley,  was  “ a 
gallant  officer.  Baptist  Van  Trier,  for  whom  De  la  Marck 
in  vain  offered  two  thousand  crowns  and  nineteen  Spanish 
prisoners.  The  proposition  was  refused  with  contempt. 
Van  Trier  was  hanged  upon  the  gallows  by  one  leg  until 
he  was  dead,  in  return  for  which  barbarity  the  nineteen 
Spaniards  were  immediately  gibbeted  by  De  la  Marck. 
With  this  interchange  of  cruelties  the  siege  may  be  said 
to  have  opened. 

Don  Frederic  had  stationed  himself  in  a position  op- 
posite to  the  gate  of  the  Cross,  which  was  not  very  strong, 
but  fortified  by  a ravelin.  Intending  to  make  a very  short 
siege  of  it,  he  established  his  batteries  immediately,  and 
on  the  18th,  19th,  and  20th  December  directed  a furious 
cannonade  against  the  Cross-gate,  the  St.  John’s  gate,  and 
the  curtain  between  the  two.  Six  hundred  and  eighty 


138 


SAINTS  AS  MASONRY 


shots  were  discharged  on  the  first,  and  nearly  as  many  ori 
each  of  the  two  succeeding  days.  The  walls  were  much 
shattered,  but  men,  women,  and  children  worked  night  and 
day  within  the  city,  repairing  the  breaches  as  fast  as  made. 
They  brought  bags  of  sand,  blocks  of  stone,  cart-loads  of 
earth  from  every  quarter,  and  they  stripped  the  churches 
of  all  their  statues,  which  they  thi^ew  by  heaps  into  the 
gaps.  They  sought  thus  a more  practical  advantage  from 
those  sculptured  saints  than  they  could  have  gained  by 
only  imploring  their  interposition.  The  fact,  however, 
excited  horror  among  the  besiegers.  Men  who  were  daily 
butchering  their  fellow-beings,  and  hanging  their  prisoners 
in  cold  blood,  affected  to  shudder  at  the  enormity  of  the 
offence  thus  exercised  against  graven  images. 

After  three  days’  cannonade,  the  assault  was  ordered, 
Don  Frederic  only  intending  a rapid  massacre,  to  crown 
his  achievements  at  Zutphen  and  Naarden.  The  place,  he 
thought,  would  fall  in  a week,  and  after  another  week  of 
sacking,  killing,  and  ravishing,  he  might  sweep  on  to 
‘ pastures  new  ’ until  Holland  was  overwhelmed.  Romero 
advanced  to  the  breach,  followed  by  a numerous  storming 
party,  but  met  with  a resistance  which  astonished  the 
Spaniards.  The  church  bells  rang  the  alarm  throughout 
the  city,  and  the  whole  population  swarmed  to  the  walls. 
The  besiegers  were  encountered  not  only  with  sword  and 
musket,  but  with  every  implement  which  the  burghers’ 
hands  could  find.  Heavy  stones,  boiling  oil,  live  coals, 
were  hurled  upon  the  heads  of  the  soldiers ; hoops,  smeared 
with  pitch  and  set  on  fire,  were  dexterously  thrown  upon 
their  necks.  Even  Spanish  courage  and  Spanish  ferocity 
were  obliged  to  shrink  before  the  steady  determination  of 
a whole  population  animated  by  a single  spirit.  Romero 
lost  an  eye  in  the  conflict,  many  officers  were  killed  and 


GRIM  HUMOUR 


139 


wounded,  and  three  or  four  hundred  soldiers  left  dead  in 
the  breach,  while  only  three  or  four  of  the  townsmen  lost 
their  lives.  The  signal  of  recall  was  reluctantly  given,  and 
the  Spaniards  abandoned  the  assault. 

^‘.Don  Frederic  was  now  aware  that  Haarlem  would  not 
fall  at  his  feet  at  the  first  sound  of  his  trumpet.  It  was 
obvious  that  a siege  must  precede  the  massacre.  He  gave 
orders,  therefore,  that  the  ravelin  should  be  undermined, 
and  doubted  not  that,  with  a few  days'  delay,  the  place 
would  be  in  his  hands." 

The  Prince  of  Orange  then  made,  from  Sassenheim, 
another  attempt  to  relieve  the  town,  sending  2,000  men. 
But  a fog  falling,  they  lost  their  way  and  fell  into  the 
enemy's  hands.  “ De  Koning,"  says  Motley,  second  in 
command,  was  among  the  prisoners.  The  Spaniards  cut 
off  his  head  and  threw  it  over  the  walls  into  the  city,  with 
this  inscription  : ‘ This  is  the  head  of  Captain  De  Koning, 
who  is  on  his  way  with  reinforcements  for  the  good  city 
of  Haarlem'.  The  citizens  retorted  with  a practical  jest, 
which  was  still  more  barbarous.  They  cut  off  the  heads 
of  eleven  prisoners  and  put  them  into  a barrel,  which  they 
threw  into  the  Spanish  camp.  A label  upon  the  barrel 
contained  these  words : ^ Deliver  these  ten  heads  to  Duke 
Alva  in  payment  of  his  tenpenny  tax,  with  one  additional 
head  for  interest '." 

Day  after  day  the  attack  continued  and  was  repulsed. 
Meanwhile,  unknown  to  the  Spaniards,  the  besieged 
burghers  were  silently  and  swiftly  building  inside  the 
ravelin  a solid  half-moon  shaped  battlement.  On  the  31st 
of  December,  the  last  day  of  1572,  the  great  assault  was 
made.  The  attack  was  unexpected,  but  the  forty  or  fifty 
sentinels  defended  the  walls  while  they  sounded  the  alarm. 
The  tocsin  bells  tolled,  and  the  citizens,  whose  sleep  was 


140 


THE  SPANIARDS  REPULSED 


not  apt  to  be  heavy  during  that  perilous  winter,  soon 
manned  the  ramparts  again.  The  daylight  came  upon 
them  while  the  fierce  struggle  was  still  at  its  height.  The 
besieged,  as  before,  defended  themselves  with  musket  and 
rapier,  with  melted  pitch,  with  firebrands,  with  clubs  and 
stones.  Meantime,  after  morning  prayers  in  the  Spanish 
camp,  the  trumpet  for  a general  assault  was  sounded.  A 
tremendous  onset  was  made  upon  the  gate  of  the  Cross, 
and  the  ravelin  was  carried  at  last.  The  Spaniards  poured 
into  this  fort,  so  long  the  object  of  their  attack,  expecting 
instantly  to  sweep  into  the  city  with  sword  and  fire.  As 
they  mounted  its  wall  they  became  for  the  first  time  aware 
of  the  new  and  stronger  fortification  which  had  been 
secretly  constructed  on  the  inner  side.  The  reason  why 
the  ravelin  had  been  at  last  conceded  was  revealed.  The 
half  moon,  whose  existence  they  had  not  suspected,  rose 
before  them  bristling  with  cannon.  A sharp  fire  was 
instantly  opened  upon  the  besiegers,  while  at  the  same 
instant  the  ravelin,  which  the  citizens  had  undermined, 
blew  up  with  a severe  explosion,  carrying  into  the  air  all 
the  soldiers  who  had  just  entered  it  so  triumphantly.  This 
was  the  turning  point.  The  retreat  was  sounded,  and  the 
Spaniards  fled  to  their  camp,  leaving  at  least  three  hundred 
dead  beneath  the  walls.  Thus  was  a second  assault,  made 
by  an  overwhelming  force  and  led  by  the  most  accomplished 
generals  of  Spain,  signally  and  gloriously  repelled  by  the 
plain  burghers  of  Haarlem.’^ 

Cold  and  famine  now  began  to  assist  the  Spaniards,  and 
the  townsfolk  were  reduced  to  every  privation.  The 
Spaniards  also  suffered  and  Don  Frederic  wished  to  raise  the 
siege.  He  suggested  this  step  to  his  father,  but  Alva  was 
made  of  sterner  stuff.  He  sent  from  Nymwegen  a grim 
message : ‘ Tell  Don  Frederic,’  said  Alva,  ^ that  if  he  be 


IMPLACABLE  ALVA 


141 


not  decided  to  continue  the  siege  till  the  town  be  taken, 

I shall  no  longer  consider  him  my  son,  whatever  my  opinion 
may  formerly  have  been.  Should  he  fall  in  the  siege^  I will 
myself  take  the  field  to  maintain  it ; and  when  we  have 
both  perished,  the  Duchess,  my  wife,  shall  come  from 
Spain  to  do  the  same/  Such  language  was  unequivocal, 
and  hostilities  were  resumed  as  fiercely  as  before.  The 
besieged  welcomed  them  with  rapture,  and,  as  usual,  made 
daily  the  most  desperate  sallies.  In  one  outbreak  the 
Haarlemers,  under  cover  of  a thick  fog,  marched  up  to  the 
enemy’s  chief  battery,  and  attempted  to  spike  the  guns 
before  his  face.  They  were  all  slain  at  the  cannon’s  mouth, 
whither  patriotism,  not  vainglory,  had  led  them,  and  lay 
dead  around  the  battery,  with  their  hammers  and  spikes 
in  their  hands.  The  same  spirit  was  daily  manifested. 
As  the  spring  advanced,  the  kine  went  daily  out  of  the 
gates  to  their  peaceful  pasture,  notwithstanding  all  the^ 
turmoil  within  and  around ; nor  was  it  possible  for  the 
Spaniards  to  capture  a single  one  of  these  creatures,  with- 
out paying  at  least  a dozen  soldiers  as  its  price.  ‘ These 
citizens,’  wrote  Don  Frederic,  ^do  as  much  as  the  best 
soldiers  in  the  world  could  do.’  ” 

The  whole  story  is  too  dreadful  to  be  told  but  events 
proved  the  implacable  old  soldier  to  be  right.  Month 
after  month  passed,  assault  after  assault  was  repulsed  by 
the  wretched  but  indomitable  burghers ; but  time  was  all 
on  the  side  of  the  enemy.  On  July  12th,  after  the  frustra- 
tion again  and  again  of  hopes  of  relief  from  the  Prince 
of  Orange,  whose  plans  were  doomed  to  failure  on  every 
occasion,  the  city  surrendered  on  the  promise  of  complete 
forgiveness  by  Don  Frederic. 

The  Don,  however,  was  only  a subordinate ; the  Duke 
of  Alva  had  other  views.  He  quickly  arrived  on  the 


142 


THE  CITY  FALLS 

scene,  and  as  quickly  his  presence  made  itself  felt.  The 
garrison,  during  the  siege,  had  been  reduced  from  four 
thousand  to  eighteen  hundred.  Of  these  the  Germans, 
six  hundred  in  number,  were,  by  Alva’s  order,  dismissed, 
on  a pledge  to  serve  no  more  against  the  King.  All 
the  rest  of  the  garrison  were  immediately  butchered, 
with  at  least  as  many  citizens.  . . . Five  executioners, 
with  their  attendants,  were  kept  constantly  at  work  ; 
and  when  at  last  they  were  exhausted  with  fatigue,  or 
perhaps  sickened  with  horror,  three  hundred  wretches 
were  tied  two  and  two,  back  to  back,  and  drowned  in  the 
Haarlem  Lake.  At  last,  after  twenty- three  hundred  human 
creatures  had  been  murdered  in  cold  blood,  within  a city 
where  so  many  thousands  had  previously  perished  by 
violent  or  by  lingering  deaths ; the  blasphemous  farce  of  a 
pardon  was  enacted.  Fifty-seven  of  the  most  prominent 
burghers  of  the  place  were,  however,  excepted  from  the  act 
of  amnesty,  and  taken  into  custody  as  security  for  the 
future  good  conduct  of  the  other  citizens.  Of  these 
hostages  some  were  soon  executed,  some  died  in  prison, 
and  all  would  have  been  eventually  sacrificed,  had  not  the 
naval  defeat  of  Bossu  soon  afterwards  enabled  the  Prince 
of  Orange  to  rescue  the  remaining  prisoners.  Ten  thousand 
two  hundi'ed  and  fifty-six  shots  had  been  discharged  against 
the  walls  during  the  siege.  Twelve  thousand  of  the  be- 
sieging army  had  died  of  wounds  or  disease  during  the 
seven  months  and  two  days  between  the  investment  and 
the  surrender.  In  the  earlier  part  of  August,  after  the  exe- 
cutions had  been  satisfactorily  accomplished,  Don  Frederic 
made  his  triumphal  entry,  and  the  first  chapter  in  the  inva- 
sion of  Holland,  was  closed.  Such  was  the  memorable  siege  of 
Haarlem,  an  event  in  which  we  are  called  upon  to  wonder 
equally  at  human  capacity  to  inflict  and  to  endure  misery. 


THE  NOBLE  KENAU 


143 


“ Philip  was  lying  dangerously  ill  at  the  wood  of  Segovia, 
when  the  happy  tidings  of  the  reduction  of  Haarlem,  with 
its  accompanying  butchery,  arrived.  The  account  of  all 
this  misery,  minutely  detailed  to  him  by  Alva,  acted  like 
magic.  The  blood  of  twenty-three  hundred  of  his  fellow- 
creatures — coldly  murdered  by  his  orders,  in  a single  city 
— proved  for  the  sanguinary  monarch  the  elixir  of  life : he 
drank  and  was  refreshed.  ^ The  principal  medicine  which 
has  cured  his  Majesty^  wrote  Secretary  Cayas  from  Madrid 
to  Alva,  ‘ is  the  joy  caused  to  him  by  the  good  news  which 
you  have  communicated  of  the  surrender  of  Haarlemy^ 

I know  nothing  of  the  women  of  Haarlem  to-day,  but 
in  the  sixteenth  century  they  were  among  the  bravest 
and  most  efficient  in  the  world,  and  it  was  largely  their 
efforts  and  example  which  enabled  the  city  to  hold  out 
so  long.  Motley  describes  them  as  a corps  of  three 
hundred  fighting  women,  “all  females  of  respectable  char- 
acter, armed  with  sword,  musket,  and  dagger.  Their  chief, 
Kenau  Hasselaer,  was  a widow  of  distinguished  family,  and 
unblemished  reputation,  about  forty-seven  years  of  age, 
who,  at  the  head  of  her  amazons,  participated  in  many  of 
the  most  fiercely  contested  actions  of  the  siege,  both  within 
and  without  the  walls.  When  such  a spirit  animated  the 
maids  and  matrons  of  the  city,  it  might  be  expected 
that  the  men  would  hardly  surrender  the  place  without 
a struggle.” 

Haarlem  still  preserves  the  pretty  custom  of  hanging 
lace  by  the  doors  of  houses  which  the  stork  is  expected 
to  visit  or  has  just  visited.  Its  origin  was  the  humanity 
of  the  Spanish  general,  during  this  great  siege,  in  receiving 
a deputation  of  matrons  fi’om  the  town  and  promising 
protection  from  his  soldiery  of  all  women  in  childbed. 
Every  house  was  to  go  unharmed  upon  which  a piece  of 


144 


THE  GREAT  ORGAN 


lace  signifying  a confinement  was  displayed.  This  was  a 
promise  with  which  the  Duke  of  Alva  seems  not  to  have 
interfered. 

The  author  of  Through  Noord-HoUand  thus  eloquently 
describes  the  effect  of  Haarlem’s  great  organ — for  long  the 
finest  in  the  world : Vibrating  rolls  the  tone  through 

the  church -building,  followed  by  sweet  melodies,  running 
through  each  register  of  it ; now  one  hears  the  sound  of 
trumpets  or  soft  whistling  tunes  then  again  piano  music  or 
melancholical  hautboy  tunes  chiming  as  well  is  deceivingly 
imitated.”  Free  recitals  are  given  on  Tuesdays  and  Thurs- 
days from  one  to  two.  On  other  days  the  organist  can  be 
persuaded  to  play  for  a fee.  Charles  Lamb’s  friend  Fell 
paid  a ducat  to  the  organist  and  half  a crown  to  the  blower, 
and  heard  as  much  as  he  wanted.  He  found  the  vox  humana 
‘Hhe  voice  of  a psalm-singing  clerk”.  Other  travellers  have 
been  more  fortunate.  Ireland  tells  us  that  when  Handel 
played  this  organ  the  organist  took  him  either  for  an  angel 
or  a devil. 

Among  Haarlem’s  architectural  attractions  is  the  very 
interesting  Meat  Market,  hard  by  the  great  church,  one 
of  the  most  agreeable  pieces  of  floridity  between  the 
Middelburg  stadhuis  and  the  Leeuwarden  chancellerie. 
There  is  also  the  fine  Amsterdam  Gate,  on  the  road  to 
Amsterdam. 

In  the  Teyler  Museum,  on  the  Spaarne,  is  a poor  col- 
lection of  modern  oil  paintings,  some  good  modern  water 
colours  and  a very  fine  collection  of  drawings  by  the 
masters,  including  several  Rembrandts.  In  this  room 
one  may  well  plan  to  spend  much  time.  One  of  the 
best  Israels  that  I saw  in  Holland  is  a little  water-colour 
interior  that  is  hung  here.  I asked  one  of  the  attendants 
if  they  had  anything  by  Matthew  Maris,  but  he  denied  his 


THE  PAINTER  AND  HIS  WIFE  (?) 
FRANS  HALS 

From  the  picture  in  the  Ryks  Museiim 


FRANS  HALS 


145 


existence.  James  he  knew,  and  William ; but  there  was 
no  Matthew.  But  he  is  your  most  distinguished  artist,” 
I said.  It  was  great  heresy  and  not  to  be  tolerated.  To 
the  ordinary  Dutchman  art  begins  with  Rembrandt  and 
ends  with  Israels.  This  perhaps  is  why  Matthew  Maris 
has  taken  refuge  in  St.  John’s  Wood. 

And  now  we  come  to  Haarlem’s  chief  glory — which  is 
not  Coster  the  printer,  and  not  the  church  .of  Bavo  the 
Saint,  and  not  the  tulip  gardens,  and  not  the  florid  and 
beautiful  Meat  Market ; but  the  painter  Frans  Hals,  whose 
masterpieces  hang  in  the  Town  Hall. 

I have  called  Hals  the  glory  of  Haarlem,  yet  he  was 
only  an  adopted  son,  having  been  born  in  Antwerp  about 
1580.  But  his  parents  were  true  Haarlemers,  and  Frans 
was  a resident  there  before  he  reached  man’s  estate. 

The  painter’s  first  marriage  was  not  happy  ; he  was  even 
publicly  reprimanded  for  cruelty  to  his  wife.  In  spite 
of  the  birth  of  his  eldest  child  just  thirty-four  weeks 
earlier  than  the  proprieties  require,  his  second  marriage, 
however,  seems  to  have  been  fortunate.  Some  think 
that  we  see  Mynheer  and  Myvrouw  Hals  in  the  picture 
— No.  1084  in  the  Ryks  Museum — which  is  reproduced 
on  the  opposite  page.  If  this  jovial  and  roguish  pair  are 
really  the  painter  and  his  wife,  they  were  a merry  couple. 
Children  they  had  in  abundance ; seven  sons,  five  of  whom 
were  painters,  and  three  daughters.  Abundance  indeed 
was  Hals’  special  characteristic ; you  see  it  in  all  his  work 
— vigorous,  careless  abundance  and  power.  He  lived  to  be 
eighty-five  or  so.  Mrs.  Hals,  after  a married  life  of  fifty 
years,  continued  to  flourish,  with  the  assistance  of  some 
relief  from  the  town,  for  a considerable  period. 

In  the  Haarlem  Museum  may  be  seen  a picture  of  Hals’ 
studio,  pahited  by  Berck  Heyde,  in  1652,  containing  portraits 


146 


GUSTO 


of  Hals  himself,  then  about  seventy,  and  several  of  his  old 
pupils — Wouvermans,  Dirck  Hals,  his  brother,  four  of  his 
sons,  the  artist  himself  and  others.  Hals  taught  also  Van 
der  Heist,  whose  work  at  times  comes  nearest  to  his  own, 
Verspronk,  Terburg  and  Adrian  van  Ostade. 

To  see  the  work  of  Hals  at  his  best  it  is  necessary  to 
visit  Holland,  for  we  have  but  little  here.  The  ‘‘  Laughing 
Cavalier”  in  the  Wallace  Collection  is  pA-haps  his  best 
picture  in  a public  gallery  in  England.  But  the  Haarlem 
Museum  is  a temple  dedicated  to  his  fame,  and  there  you 
may  revel  in  his  lusty  powers. 

The  room  in  which  his  great  groups  hang  is  perhaps 
in  effect  more  filled  with  faces  than  any  in  the  world. 
Entering  the  door  one  is  immediately  beneath  the  bold 
and  laughing  scrijltiny  of  a host  of  genial  masterful  arque- 
busiers,  who  make  merry  on  the  walls  for  all  time.  Such 
a riot  of  vivid  portraiture  never  was ! Other  men  have 
painted  single  heads  as  well  or  better : but  Hals  stands 
alone  in  his  gusto,  his  abundance,  his  surpassing  brio.  It 
is  a thousand  pities  that  neither  Lamb  nor  Hazlitt  ever 
made  the  journey  to  Haarlem,  because  only  they  among 
our  writers  on  art  could  have  brought  a commensurate 
gusto  to  the  praise  of  his  brush. 

I have  reproduced  one  of  the  groups  opposite  page  150, 
but  the  result  is  no  more  than  a memento  of  the  original. 
It  conveys,  however,  an  impression  of  the  skill  in  composi- 
tion by  which  the  group  is  made  not  only  a collection 
of  portraits  but  a picture  too.  If  such  groups  there 
must  be,  this  is  the  way  to  paint  them.  The  Dutch  in  the 
seventeenth  century  had  a perfect  mania  for  these  com- 
memorative canvases,  and  there  is  not  a stadhuis  but  has 
one  or  more.  Rembrandt’s  “ Night  Watch  ” and  Hals’ 
Haarlem  groups  are  the  greatest ; but  one  is  always  sur- 


HAARLEM^S  PAINTERS 


147 


prised  by  the  general  level  of  excellence  maintained,  and 
now  and  then  a lesser  man  such  as  Van  der  Heist  climbs 
very  nigh  the  rose,  as  in  his  “ De  Schuttersmaaltyd  ” in  the 
‘‘Night  Watch”  room  in  the  Ryks  Museum.  The  Cor- 
poration pieces  of  Jan  van  Ravesteyn  in  the  Municipal 
Museum  at  The  Hague  are  also  exceedingly  vivid ; while 
Jan  de  Bray’s  canvases  at  Haarlem,  in  direct  competition 
with  Hals’,  would  be  very  good  indeed  in  the  absence  of 
their  rivals. 

Among  other  painters  who  can  be  studied  here  is  our 
Utrecht  friend  Jan  van  Scorel,  who  has  a large  “Adam 
and  Eve”  in  the  passage  and  a famous  “Baptism  of  Christ”; 
Jan  Verspronk  of  Haarlem,  Hals’  pupil,  who  has  a very 
quiet  and  effective  portrait  (No.  210)  and  a fine  rich  group 
of  the  lady  managers  of  an  orphanage ; and  Cornelius  Cor- 
nellessen,  also  of  Haarlem,  painter  of  an  excellent  Corpora- 
tion Banquet.  In  the  collection  are  also  a very  charming 
little  Terburg  (No.  194)  and  a fascinating  unsigned  portrait 
of  William  HI.  as  a pale  and  wistful  boy. 

Haarlem  was  the  mother  or  instructor  of  many  painters. 
There  is  Dirck  Hals,  the  brother  of  Frans,  who  was  born 
there  at  the  end  of  the  sixteenth  century,  and  painted 
richly  coloured  scenes  of  fashionable  convivial  life.  He 
died  at  Haarlem  ten  years  before  Frans.  A greater  was 
Bartholomew  van  der  Heist,  who  was  Hals’  most  assimi- 
lative pupil.  He  was  born  at  Haarlem  about  1612,  and  is 
supposed  to  have  studied  also  under  Nicolas  Elias.  His 
finest  large  work  is  undoubtedly  the  “ Banquet  ” to  which 
I have  just  referred,  but  I always  associate  him  with  his 
portrait  of  Gerard  Bicker,  Landrichter  of  Muiden,  that 
splendid  tun  of  a man.  No.  1140  in  the  Gallery  of  Honour 
at  the  Ryks  Museum  (see  opposite  page  86).  One  of  his 
most  beautiful  paintings  is  a portrait  of  a woman  in  our 


148 


BROUWER  AND  BERCHEM 


National  Gallery,  on  a screen  in  the  large  Netherlands 
room : a picture  which  shows  the  influence  of  Elias  not  a 
little,  as  any  one  can  see  who  recalls  Nos.  897  and  899  in 
the  Ryks  Museum — two  very  beautiful  portraits  of  a man 
and  his  wife. 

Haarlem  and  Oudenarde  both  claim  tjie  birth  of  Adrian 
Brouwer,  a painter  of  Dutch  topers.  As  to  his  life  little 
is  known.  Tradition  says  that  he  drank  and  dissipated 
his  earnings,  while  his  work  is  evidence  that  he  knew  inn 
life  with  some  particularity ; but  his  epitaph  calls  him  a 
man  of  great  mind  who  rejected  every  splendour  of  the 
world  and  who  despised  gain  and  riches”.  Brouwer,  who 
was  born  about  1606,  was  put  by  his  mother,  a dressmaker 
at  Haarlem,  into  the  studio  of  Frans  Hals.  Hals  bullied 
him,  as  he  bullied  his  first  wife.  Escaping  to  Amsterdam, 
Brouwer  became  a famous  painter,  his  pictures  being  ac- 
quired, among  others,  by  Rembrandt  in  his  wealthy  days, 
and  by  Rubens.  He  died  at  Antwerp  when  only  thirty- 
three.  We  have  nothing  of  his  in  the  National  Gallery, 
but  he  is  represented  at  the  Wallace  Collection. 

At  Haarlem  was  born  also,  in  1620,  Nicolas  Berchem, 
painter  of  charming  scenes  of  broken  arches  and  columns 
(which  he  certainly  never  saw  in  his  own  country),  made 
human  and  domestic  by  the  presence  of  people  and  cows, 
and  suffused  with  gentle  light.  We  have  five  of  his  pictures 
in  the  National  Gallery.  Berchem^s  real  name  was  Van 
Haarlem.  One  day,  however,  when  he  was  a pupil  in  Van 
Goyen’s  studio,  his  father  pursued  him  for  some  fault.  Van 
Goyen,  who  was  a kindly  creature,  as  became  the  father-in- 
law  of  Jan  Steen,  called  out  to  his  other  pupils — Berg 
hem  ” (Hide  him  ! ) and  the  phrase  stuck,  and  became  his 
best-known  name.  Nicolas  married  a termagant,  but  never 
allowed  her  to  impair  his  cheerful  disposition. 


RUISDAEL 


149 


Haarlem  was  the  birthplace  also  of  Jacob  van  Ruis- 
dael, greatest  of  Dutch  landscape  painters.  He  was  born 
about  1620.  His  idea  was  to  be  a doctor,  but  Nicolas 
Berchem  induced  him  to  try  painting,  and  we  cannot  be 
too  thankful  for  the  change.  His  landscapes  have  a deep 
and  grave  beauty : the  clouds  really  seem  to  be  floating 
across  the  sky ; the  water  can  almost  be  heard  tumbling 
over  the  stones.  Ruisdael  did  not  find  his  typical  scenery 
in  his  native  land : he  travelled  in  Germany  and  Italy, 
and  possibly  in  Norway ; but  whenever  he  painted  a 
strictly  Dutch  scene  he  excelled.  He  died  at  Haarlem  in 
1682 ; and  one  of  his  most  exquisite  pictures  hangs  in  the 
Museum.  I do  not  give  any  reproductions  of  Ruisdael 
because  his  work  loses  so  much  in  the  process.  At  the 
National  Gallery  and  at  the  Wallace  Collection  he  is  well 
represented . 

Walking  up  and  down  beneath  the  laughing  confidence 
of  these  many  bold  faces  in  the  great  Hals’  room  at 
Haarlem  I found  myself  repeating  Longfellow’s  lines : — 

He  has  singed  the  beard  of  the  King  of  Spain, 

And  carried  away  the  Dean  of  Jaen 
And  sold  him  in  Algiers. 

Surely  the  hero,  Simon  Danz,  was  something  such  a man 
as  Hals  painted.  How  does  the  ballad  run  — 

A DUTCH  PICTURE. 

Simon  Danz  has  come  home  again, 

From  cruising  about  with  his  buccaneers ; 

He  has  singed  the  beard  of  the  King  of  Spain, 

And  carried  away  the  Dean  of  Jaen 
And  sold  him  in  Algiers. 

In  his  house  by  the  Maese,  with  its  roof  of  tiles 
And  weathercocks  flying  aloft  in  air. 

There  are  silver  tankards  of  antique  styles, 

Plunder  of  convent  and  castle,  and  piles 
Of  carpets  rich  and  rare. 


150 


SIMON  DANZ 


In  his  tulip  garden  there  by  the  town 
Overlooking  the  sluggish  stream, 

With  his  Moorish  cap  and  dressing-gown 
The  old  sea-captain,  hale  and  brown, 

Walks  in  a waking  dream. 

A smile  in  his  gray  mustachio  luks 

Whenever  he  thinks  of  the  King  of  Spain. 
And  the  listed  tulips  look  like  Turks, 

And  the  silent  gardener  as  he  works 
Is  changed  to  the  Dean  of  Jaen. 

The  windmills  on  the  outermost 
Verge  of  the  landscape  in  the  haze. 

To  him  are  towers  on  the  Spanish  coast, 
With  whisker’d  sentinels  at  their  post, 
Though  this  is  the  river  Maese. 

But  when  the  winter  rains  begin^ 

He  sits  and  smokes  by  the  blazing  brands, 
And  old  sea-faring  men  come  in. 
Goat-bearded,  gray,  and  with  double  chin. 
And  rings  upon  their  hands. 

They  sit  there  in  the  shadow  and  shine 
Of  the  flickering  fire  of  the  winter  night. 
Figures  in  colour  and  design 
Like  those  by  Rembrandt  of  the  Rhine, 

Half  darkness  and  half  light. 

And  they  talk  of  their  ventures  lost  or  won, 
And  their  talk  is  ever  and  ever  the  same, 
While  they  drink  the  red  wine  of  Tarragon, 
From  the  cellars  of  some  Spanish  Don, 

Or  convent  set  on  flame. 

Restless  at  times,  with  heavy  strides 
He  paces  his  parlour  to  and  fro  ; 

He  is  like  a ship  that  at  anchor  rides. 

And  swings  with  the  rising  and  falling  tides 
And  tugs  at  her  anchor-tow. 


GROUP  OF  ARQUEBUSIERS 
FRANS  HALS 

Frovz  the  picture  in  the  Haarlem  Museum 


THE  OLD  AND  THE  NEW 


151 


Voices  mysterious  far  and  near, 

Sound  of  the  wind  and  sound  of  the  sea, 

Are  calling  and  whispering  in  his  ear, 

“ Simon  Danz  1 Why  stayest  thou  here  ? 

Come  forth  and  follow  me  I ” 

So  he  thinks  he  shall  take  to  the  sea  again. 

For  one  more  cruise  with  his  buccaneers; 

To  singe  the  beard  of  the  King  of  Spain, 

And  capture  another  Dean  of  Jaen 
And  sell  him  in  Algiers, 

One  thought  leads  to  another.  It  is  impossible  also  to 
remain  long  in  the  great  Hals’  room  of  the  Museum  with- 
out meditating  a little  upon  the  difference  between  these 
arquebusiers  and  the  Dutch  of  the  present  day.  Passing 
among  these  people,  once  so  mighty  and  ambitious,  so 
great  in  government  and  colonisation,  in  seamanship  and 
painting,  and  seeing  them  now  so  material  and  self-centred, 
so  bound  within  their  own  small  limits,  so  careless  of 
literature  and  art,  so  intent  upon  the  profits  of  the  day 
and  the  pleasures  of  next  Sunday,  one  has  a vision  of  what 
perhaps  may  be  our  own  lot.  For  the  Dutch  are  very  near 
us  in  kin,  and  once  were  nigh  as  great  as  we  have  been. 
Are  we,  in  our  day  of  decadence,  to  shrivel  thus  ? There 
but  for  the  grace  of  God  goes  England  ” — is  that  a reason- 
able utterance  ? 

One  sees  the  difference  concretely  as  one  passes  from 
these  many  Corporation  and  Regent  pieces  in  the  galleries 
of  Holland  to  the  living  Dutchmen  of  the  streets.  I saw 
it  particularly  at  Haarlem  on  a streaming  wet  day,  after 
hurrying  from  the  Museum  to  the  Cafe  Brinkmann  through 
some  inches  of  water.  At  a table  opposite,  sipping  their 
coffee,  were  two  men  strikingly  like  two  of  Frans  Hals’ 
arquebusiers.  Yet  how  unlike.  For  the  air  of  mas- 
terful recklessness  had  gone,  that  good-humoured  glint 


162 


AN  ECHO 


of  power  in  the  eye  was  no  more.  Hals  had  painted 
conquerors,  or  at  any  rate  warriors  for  country;  these 
coffee  drinkers  were  meditating  profit  and  loss.  Where 
once  was  authority  is  now  calculation. 

I quote  a little  poem  by  Mr.  Van  Lennep  of  Zeist, 
near  Utrecht,  which  shows  that  the  Dutch,  whatever  their 
present  condition,  have  not  forgotten  : — 

The  shell,  when  put  to  child-like  ears, 

Yet  murmurs  of  its  bygone  years. 

In  echoes  of  the  sea  ; 

The  Dutch-born  youngster  likes  the  sound, 

And  ponders  o’er  its  mystic  ground 
And  wondrous  memory. 

Thus,  in  Dutch  hearts,  an  echo  dwells. 

Which,  like  the  ever-mindful  shells. 

Yet  murmurs  of  the  sea : 

That  sea,  of  ours  in  times  of  yore. 

And,  when  De  Ruyter  went  before, 

Our  road  to  victory. 


CHAPTER  X 


AMSTERDAM 

The  Venice  ot  the  North — The  beauty  of  gravity — No  place  for  George 
Dyer — The  Keizersgracht — Kalverstraat  and  Warmoes  Straat— The 
Ghetto — Pile-driving — Erasmus’s  sarcasm — The  new  Bourse — Learn- 
ing the  city — Tramway  perplexities — The  unnecessary  guide — 
The  Royal  Palace — The  New  Church — Stained  glass — The  Old 
Church — The  five  carpets — Wedding  customs — Dutch  wives  to- 
day and  in  the  past — The  Begijnenhof — The  new  religion  and  the 
old — The  Burgerweesmeisjes — The  Eight  Orange  Blossoms — Dutch 
music  halls — A Dutch  Hamlet — The  fish  market — Rembrandt’s 
grave — A nation  of  shopkeepers — Max  Havelaar — Mr.  Drystubble’s 
device — Lothario  and  Betsy — The  English  in  Holland  and  the  Dutch 
in  England — Athleticism — A people  on  skates — The  chaperon’s 
perplexity — Love  on  the  level. 

Amsterdam  is  notable  for  two  possessions  above 
others : its  old  canals  and  its  old  pictures.  Truly 
has  it  been  called  the  Venice  of  the  North ; but  very 
different  is  its  sombre  quietude  from  the  sunny  Italian 
city  among  the  waters.  There  is  a beauty  of  gaiety  and 
a beauty  of  gravity ; and  Amsterdam  in  its  older  parts — 
on  the  Keizersgracht  and  the  Heerengracht — has  the  beauty 
of  gravity.  In  Venice  the  canal  is  of  course  also  the 
street : gondolas  and  barcas  are  continually  gliding  hither 
and  thither ; but  in  the  Keizersgracht  and  the  Heerengracht 
the  water  is  little  used.  One  day,  however,  I watched  a 
costermonger  steering  a boat-load  of  flowers  under  a bridge, 
and  no  words  of  mine  can  describe  the  loveliness  of  their 

(153) 


154 


THE  KEIZERSGRACHT’S  SECRET 


reflection.  I remember  the  incident  particularly  because 
flowers  are  not  much  earned  in  Holland,  and  it  is  very 
pleasant  to  have  this  impression  of  them — this  note  of 
happy  gaiety  in  so  dark  a setting. 

An  unprotected  roadway  runs  on  either  side  of  the 
water,  which  makes  the  houses  beside  these  canals  no 
place  for  Charles  Lamb’s  friend,  George  Dyer,  to  visit  iii. 
Accidents  are  not  numerous,  but  a company  exists  in  Amster- 
dam whose  business  it  is  to  rescue  such  odd  dippers  as 
horses  and  carriages  by  means  of  elaborate  machinery 
devised  for  the  purpose.  Only  travellers  born  under  a 
luckier  star  than  I are  privileged  to  witness  such  sport. 

In  the  main  Amsterdam  is  a city  of  trade,  of  hurrying 
business  men,  of  ceaseless  clanging  tramcars  and  crowded 
streets  ; but  on  the  Keizersgracht  and  the  Heerengracht 
you  are  always  certain  to  find  the  old  essential  Dutch 
gravity  and  peace.  No  tide  moves  the  sullen  waters  of 
these  canals,  which  are  lined  with  trees  that  in  spring  form 
before  the  narrow,  dark,  discreet  houses  the  most  delicate 
green  tracery  imaginable ; and  in  summer  screen  them 
altogether.  These  houses  are  for  the  most  part  black 
and  brown,  with  white  window  frames,  and  they  rise  to  a 
great  height,  culminating  in  that  curious  stepped  gable 
(with  a crane  and  pulley  in  it)  which  is,  to  many  eyes,  the 
symbol  of  the  city.  I know  no  houses  that  so  keep  their 
secrets.  In  every  one,  I doubt  not,  is  furniture  worthy 
of  the  exterior:  old  paintings  of  Dutch  gentlemen  and 
gentlewomen,  a landscape  or  two,  a girl  with  a lute  and  a 
few  tavern  scenes ; old  silver  windmills  ; and  plate  upon 
plate  of  serene  blue  Delft.  (You  may  see  what  I mean 
in  the  Suasso  rooms  at  the  Stadelijks  Museum.)  I have 
walked  and  idled  in  the  Keizersgracht  at  all  times  of  the 
day,  but  have  never  seen  any  real  signs  of  life.  Mats  have 


ST.  NICOLAS  CHURCH 


AMSTERDAM 


OWEN  FELTHAM 


155 


been  banged  on  its  dooi*steps  by  clean  Dutch  maidservants 
armed  with  wicker  beaters ; milk  has  been  brought  in  huge 
cans  of  brass  and  copper  shining  like  the  sun  ; but  of  its 
life  proper  the  gracht  has  given  no  sign.  Its  true  life  is 
houseridden,  behind  those  spotless  and  very  beautiful  lace 
curtains,  and  there  it  remains. 

One  of  the  wittiest  of  the  old  writers  on  Holland  (of 
whom  I said  something  in  the  second  chapter),  Owen  Felt- 
ham  the  moralist,  describes  in  his  Brief  Character  of  the 
Low  Countries  an  Amsterdam  house  of  the  middle  of  the 
seventeenth  century.  Thus : — 

When  you  are  entered  the  house,  the  first  thing  you  encounter  is  a 
Looking-glasse.  No  question  but  a true  Embleme  of  politick  hospitality  ; 
for  though  it  reflect  yourself  in  your  own  figure,  ’tis  yet  no  longer  than 
while  you  are  there  before  it.  When  you  are  gone  once,  it  flatters  the 
next  commer,  without  the  least  remembrance  that  you  ere  were  there. 

The  next  are  the  vessels  of  the  house  marshalled  about  the  room  like 
watchmen.  All  as  neat  as  if  you  were  in  a Citizen’s  Wife’s  Cabinet ; for 
unless  it  be  themselves,  they  let  none  of  God’s  creatures  lose  any  thing  of 
their  native  beauty. 

Their  houses,  especially  in  their  Cities,  are  the  best  eye-beauties  of 
their  Country.  For  cost  and  sight  they  far  exceed  our  English,  but  they 
want  their  magnificence.  Their  lining  is  yet  more  rich  than  their  out- 
side; not  in  hangings,  but  pictures,  which  even  the  poorest  are  there 
furnisht  with.  Not  a cobler  but  has  his  toyes  for  ornament.  Were  the 
knacks  of  all  their  houses  set  together,  there  would  not  be  such  another 
Bartholmew-FdLixQ  in  Europe,  . . . 

Their  beds  are  no  other  than  land-cabines,  high  enough  to  need  a 
ladder  or  stairs.  Up  once,  you  are  walled  in  with  Wainscot,  and  that  is 
good  discretion  to  avoid  the  trouble  of  making  your  will  every  night ; for 
once  falling  out  else  would  break  your  neck  perfectly.  But  if  you  die  in 
it,  this  comfort  you  shall  leave  your  friends,  that  you  dy’d  in  clean  linnen. 

Whatsoever  their  estates  be,  their  houses  must  be  fair.  Therefore 
from  Amsterdam  they  have  banisht  seacoale,  lest  it  soyl  their  buildings, 
of  which  the  statelier  sort  are  sometimes  sententious,  and  in  the  front 
carry  some  conceit  of  the  Owner.  As  to  give  you  a taste  in  these. 

Christus  Adjutor  Mens  ; 

Hoc  ahdicato  Perenne  Quero  ; 

Hie  Medio  tuitu^  Itur, 


156 


REFLECTIONS 


Every  door  seems  studded  with  Diamonds.  The  nails  and  hinges 
hold  a constant  brightnesse,  as  if  rust  there  was  not  a quality  incident  to 
Iron.  Their  houses  they  keep  cleaner  than  their  bodies;  their  bodies 
than  their  souls.  Goe  to  one,  you  shall  find  the  Andirons  shut  up  in 
net-work.  At  a second,  the  Warming-pan  mu|fied  in  Italian  Cutworke. 
At  a third  the  Sconce  clad  in  Cambrick. 

The  absence  of  any  lively  traffic  on  the  canals,  as  in  Venice, 
has  this  compensation,  that  the  surface  is  left  untroubled 
the  more  minutely  to  mirror  the  houses  and  trees,  and,  at 
night,  the  tramcars  on  the  bridges.  The  lights  of  these 
cars  form  the  most  vivid  reflections  that  I can  recollect. 
But  the  quiet  reproduction  of  the  stately  black  facades  is 
the  more  beautiful  thing.  An  added  dignity  and  repose 
are  noticeable.  I said  just  now  that  one  desired  to  learn 
the  secret  of  the  calm  life  of  these  ancient  gi’achts.  But 
the  secret  of  the  actual  houses  of  fact  is  as  nothing  com- 
pared with  the  secret  of  those  other  houses,  more  sombre, 
more  mysterious,  more  reserved,  that  one  sees  in  the  water. 
To  penetrate  their  impressive  doors  were  an  achievement,  a 
distinction,  indeed  ! With  such  a purpose  suicide  would 
lose  half  its  terroi’s. 

For  the  greatest  conti’ast  to  these  black  canals,  you  must 
seek  the  Kalverstraat  and  Warmoes  Straat.  Kalverstraat, 
running  south  from  the  Dam,  is  by  day  filled  with  shoppers 
and  by  night  with  gossipers.  No  street  in  the  world  can 
be  more  consistently  busy.  Damrak  is  of  course  always  a 
scene  of  life,  but  Damrak  is  a thoroughfare — its  population 
moving  continually  either  to  or  from  the  station.  But 
those  who  use  the  Kalversti’aat  may  be  said  almost  to  live 
in  it.  To  be  there  is  an  end  in  itself.  Warmoes  Straat, 
parallel  with  Danu’ak  on  the  other  side  of  the  Bom’se,  be- 
hind the  Bible  Hotel,  is  famous  for  its  gigantic  restaurant 
— the  hugest  in  Europe,  I believe — the  Ki’asnapolsky,  a 
palace  of  bewildering  mirrors,  and  for  concert  halls  and 


THE  GHETTO 


157 


other  accessories  of  the  gayer  life.  But  this  book  is  no 
place  in  which  to  enlarge  upon  the  natural  history  of 
Warmoes  Straat  and  its  southern  continuation,  the  Nes. 

For  the  principal  cafes,  as  distinguished  from  restaurants, 
you  must  seek  the  Rembrandt’s  Plein,  in  the  midst  of 
which  stands  the  master’s  statue.  The  pavement  of  this 
plein  on  Sunday  evening  in  summer  is  almost  impassable 
for  the  tables  and  chairs  that  spread  over  it  and  the  crowds 
oveidlowing  from  Kalverstraat. 

But  there  is  still  to  be  mentioned  a district  of  Amster- 
dam which  from  the  evening  of  Friday  until  the  evening  of 
Saturday  is  more  populous  even  than  Kalverstraat.  This 
is  the  Jews’  quarter,  which  has,  I should  imagine,  more 
parents  and  children  to  the  square  foot  than  any  residential 
region  in  Europe.  I struggled  through  it  at  sundown  one 
fine  Saturday — to  say  I walked  through  it  would  be  too 
misleading — and  the  impression  I gathered  of  seething 
vivacity  is  still  with  me.  These  people  surely  will  inherit 
the  earth. 

Spinoza  was  a child  of  this  Ghetto : his  birthplace  at 
41  Waterloo  Plein  is  still  shown ; and  Rembrandt  lived  at 
No.  4 Jodenbree  Straat  for  sixteen  years. 

A large  number  of  the  Amsterdam  Jews  are  diamond 
cutters  and  polishers.  You  may  see  in  certain  cafes  dealers 
in  these  stones  turning  over  priceless  little  heaps  of  them 
with  the  long  little  finger-nail  which  they  preserve  as  a 
scoop. 

Amsterdam  may  be  a city  builded  on  the  sand ; but  none 
the  less  will  it  endure.  Indeed  the  sand  saves  it ; for  it  is 
in  the  sand  that  the  wooden  piles  on  which  every  house 
rests  find  their  footing,  squelching  through  the  black  mud 
to  this  comparative  solidity.  Some  of  the  piles  are  as  long 
as  52  ft.,  and  watching  them  being  driven  in,  it  is  impossible 


158 


PILE-DRIVING 


to  believe  that  stability  can  ever  be  attained,  every  blow  of 
the  monkey  accounting  for  so  very  many  inches.  When  one 
watches  pile-driving  in  England  it  is  difficult  to  see  the 
effect  of  each  blow ; but  during^the  five  or  fewer  minutes 
that  I spent  one  day  on  Damrak  observing  the  preparation 
for  the  foundations  of  a new  house,  the  pile  must  have 
gone  in  nearly  a foot  each  time,  and  it  was  very  near  the 
end  of  its  journey  too.  In  course  of  years  the  black  brackish 
mud  petrifies  not  only  the  piles  but  the  wooden  girders 
that  are  laid  upon  them. 

Pile-driving  on  an  extensive  scale  can  be  a very  picturesque 
sight.  Breitner  has  painted  several  pile-driving  scenes,  one 
of  which  hangs  in  the  Stadelijks  Museum  at  Amsterdam. 

Statistics  are  always  impressive.  I have  seen  somewhere 
the  number  of  piles  which  support  the  new  Bourse  and 
the  Central  Station;  but  I cannot  now  find  them.  The 
Royal  Palace  stands  on  13,659.  Erasmus  of  Rotterdam 
made  merry  quite  in  the  manner  of  an  English  humorist 
over  Amsterdam’s  wooden  foundations.  He  twitted  the 
inhabitants  with  living  on  the  tops  of  trees,  like  rooks. 
But  as  I lay  awake  from  daybreak  to  a civilised  hour  for 
two  mornings  in  the  Hotel  Weimar  at  Rotterdam — pre- 
vented from  sleeping  by  the  pile-driving  for  the  hotel 
extension — I thought  of  the  apologue  of  the  pot  and  the 
kettle. 

I referred  just  now  to  the  new  Bourse.  When  I was  at 
Amsterdam  in  1897,  the  water  beside  Damrak  extended 
much  farther  towards  the  Dam  than  it  does  now.  Where 
now  is  the  new  Bourse  was  then  shipping.  But  the 
new  Bourse  looks  stable  enough  to-day.  As  to  its  archi- 
tectural charms,  opinions  differ.  My  own  feeling  is  that 
it  is  not  a style  that  will  wear  well.  For  a permanent 
public  building  something  more  classic  is  probably  desir- 


THE  cat’s  dancing  I.ESSON 

JAN  STEEN 

From  the  picture  in  the  Ryks  Museum 


THE  DAM 


159 


able ; and  at  Amsterdam,  that  city  of  sombre  colouring, 
I would  have  had  darker  hues  than  the  red  and  yellow  that 
have  been  employed.  The  site  of  the  old  Bourse  is  now  an 
open  space. 

It  is  stated  that  the  kindly  custom  of  allowing  the  children 
of  Amsterdam  the  run  of  the  Bourse  as  a playground  for  a 
week  every  year  is  some  compensation  for  the  suppression 
of  the  Kermis,  but  another  story  makes  the  sanction  a 
perpetual  reward  for  an  heroic  deed  against  the  Spaniards 
performed  by  a child  in  1622. 

My  advice  to  any  one  visiting  Amsterdam  is  first  to 
study  a map  of  the  city — Baedeker  gives  a very  useful  one 
— and  thus  to  begin  with  a general  idea  of  the  lie  of  the 
land  and  the  water.  With  this  knowledge,  and  the  assist- 
ance of  the  trams,  it  should  not  appear  a very  bewildering 
place.  The  Dam  is  its  heart : a fact  the  acquisition  of  which 
will  help  very  sensibly.  All  roads  in  Amsterdam  lead  to  the 
Dam,  and  all  lead  from  it.  The  Dam  gives  the  city  its 
name — Amstel  dam,  the  dam  which  stops  the  river  Amstel 
on  its  course  to  the  Zuyder  Zee.  It  also  gives  English  and 
American  visitors  opportunities  for  facetiousness  which  I 
tingle  to  recall.  Every  tram  sooner  or  later  reaches  the 
Dam : that  is  another  simplifying  piece  of  information. 
The  course  of  each  tram  may  not  be  very  easily  acquired, 
but  with  a common  destination  like  this  you  cannot  be 
carried  very  far  wrong. 

One  soon  learns  that  the  trams  stop  only  at  fixed  points, 
and  waits  accordingly.  The  next  lesson,  which  is  not  quite 
so  simple,  is  that  some  of  these  points  belong  exclusively  to 
trams  going  one  way  and  some  exclusively  to  trams  going 
the  other.  If  there  is  one  thing  calculated  to  reduce  a 
perplexed  foreigner  in  Amsterdam  to  rage  and  despair,  it 
is,  after  a tiring  day  among  pictures,  to  hail  a half  empty 


160 


A SHORT  WAY  WITH  GUIDES 


tram  at  a fixed  point,  with  Tram-halte  written  on  it,  and 
be  treated  to  a pitying  $^ile  from  the  driver  as  it  rushes 
by.  Upon  such  mortifications  is  education  based  ; for  one 
then  looks  again  more  narrowly  at  the  sign  and  sees  that 
underneath  it  is  a little  arrow  pointing  in  the  opposite 
direction  to  which  one  wished  to  go.  One  then  walks  on  to 
the  next  point,  at  which  the  aiTow  will  be  pointing  home- 
wards, and  waits  there.  Sometimes — O happy  moment — 
a double  arrow  is  found,  facing  both  ways. 

It  is  on  the  Dam  that  guides  will  come  and  pester  you. 
The  guide  candes  an  umbrella  and  offers  to  show  Amster- 
dam in  such  a way  as  to  save  you  much  money.  He  is 
quite  useless,  and  the  quickest  means  of  getting  free  is  to 
say  that  you  have  come  to  the  city  for  no  other  purpose 
than  to  pay  extravagantly  for  everything.  So  stupend- 
ous an  idea  checks  even  his  importunity  for  a moment,  and 
while  he  still  reels  you  can  escape.  The  guides  outside  the 
Ryks  Museum  who  offer  to  point  out  the  beauties  of  the 
pictures  are  less  persistent.  It  would  seem  as  if  they  were 
aware  of  the  unsoundness  of  their  case.  There  is  no 
need  to  reply  to  these  at  all. 

On  the  Dam  also  is  the  Royal  Palace,  which  once  was 
the  stadhuis,  but  in  1808  (when  Amsterdam  was  the  third 
city  of  the  French  Empire)  was  offered  to  Louis  Napoleon 
for  a residence.  Queen  Wilhelmina  occasionally  stays  there, 
but  The  Hague  holds  her  true  home.  The  apartments  are 
florid  and  not  very  interesting ; but  if  the  ascent  of  the 
tower  is  permitted  one  should  certainly  make  it.  It  is 
interesting  to  have  Amsterdam  at  one’s  feet.  Only  thus 
can  its  peculiar  position  and  shape  be  understood  : its  old 
part  an  almost  perfect  semicircle,  with  canal-arcs  within 
arcs,  and  its  northern  shore  washed  by  the  Y. 

Also  on  the  Dam  is  the  New  Church,  which  is  to  be  seen 


THE  ROSTER 


161 


more  for  the  tomb  of  De  Ruyter  than  for  any  architectural 
graces.  The  old  sea  dog,  whose  dark  and  determined 
features  confront  one  in  BoFs  canvases  again  and  again  in 
Holland,  reposes  in  full  dress  on  a cannon  amid  symbols  of 
his  victories.  Close  by,  in  the  Royal  Palace,  are  some  of 
the  flags  which  he  wrested  from  the  English.  Other 
admirals  also  lie  there,  the  Dutch  naval  commander  never 
having  wanted  for  honour  in  his  own  country. 

The  New  Church,  where  the  monarchs  of  Holland  are 
crowned,  has  a very  large  new  stained-glass  window  repre- 
senting the  coronation  of  Queen  Wilhemina — one  of  the 
most  satisfying  new  windows  that  I know,  but  quite  lack- 
ing in  any  religious  suggestion.  That  poet  who  considered 
a church  the  best  retreat,  because  it  is  good  to  contemplate 
God  through  stained  glass,  would  have  fared  badly  in 
Holland. 

The  New  Church  is  new  only  by  comparison  with  the 
Old.  It  was  built  in  1410,  rebuilt  in  1452  and  1645. 
Amsterdam’s  Old  Church,  on  the  other  side  of  Warmoes 
Straat,  dates  from  1300.  The  visitor  to  the  New  Church 
is  handed  a brief  historical  leaflet  in  exchange  for  his 
twenty-five  cents,  and  is  left  to  his  own  devices ; but  the 
Old  Church  has  a koster  who  takes  a pride  in  showing  his 
lions  and  who  deprecates  gifts  of  money.  An  elderly,  clean- 
shaved  man  with  a humorous  mouth,  he  might  be  taken 
for  Holland’s  leading  comedian.  Instead,  he  displays 
ecclesiastical  treasures,  of  which  in  1904  there  were  fewer 
than  usual,  two  of  the  three  fine  old  windows  representing 
the  life  of  the  Virgin  being  under  repair  behind  a screen. 
The  tombs  and  monuments  are  not  interesting — admirals 
of  the  second  rank  and  such  small  fry. 

It  is  in  the  Old  Church  that  most  of  the  weddings  of 
Amsterdam  are  celebrated,  Thursday  is  the  day,  for  then 
n 


162 


WEDDINGS 


the  fees  are  practically  nothing ; on  other  days  to  be 
manned  is  an  expense.  ^The  koster  deplores  the  modern 
materialism  which  leads  so  many  young  men  to  be  satisfied 
with  the  civil  function  ; but  the  little  enclosure,  like  a small 
arena,  in  which  the  church  blesses  unions,  had  to  me  a 
hardly  less  business-like  appearance  than  a registry  office. 
The  comedian  overflows  with  details.  For  the  covering 
of  the  floor,  he  explains,  there  are  five  distinct  carpets, 
ranging  in  price  from  five  guelders  to  twenty-five  for  the 
hire,  according  to  the  means  or  ostentation  of  the  party. 
Thursdays  are  no  holiday  for  the  church  officials,  one 
couple  being  hardly  united  before  the  horses  of  the  next 
are  pawing  the  paving  stones  at  the  door. 

I saw  on  one  Thursday  three  bridal  parties  in  as  many 
minutes.  The  happy  bride  sat  on  the  back  seat  of  the 
brougham,  immediately  before  her  being  two  mirrors  in 
the  shape  of  a heart  supporting  a bouquet  of  white  flowers. 
Contemplating  this  simple  imagery  she  rattles  to  the 
ecclesiastical  arena  and  the  sanctities  of  the  five,  ten, 
fifteen,  twenty  or  twenty-five  guelder  carpet.  After,  a 
banquet  and  jokes. 

This  is  the  second  banquet,  for  when  the  precise  pre- 
liminaries of  a Dutch  engagement  are  settled  a betrothal 
feast  is  held.  Friends  are  bidden  to  the  wedding  by  the 
receipt  of  a box  of  sweets  and  a bottle  of  wine  known 
as  Bride’s  tears  For  the  wedding  day  itself  there  is  a 
particular  brand  of  wine  which  contains  little  grains  of 
gold.  The  Dutch  also  have  special  cake  and  wine  for  the 
celebration  of  births. 

The  position  of  the  Dutch  wife  is  now  very  much  that 
of  the  wife  in  England  ; but  in  Holland’s  great  days 
she  ruled.  Something  of  her  quality  is  to  be  seen  in  the 
stories  of  Baimeveldt’s  widow  and  Grotius’s  wife,  and  the 


CANAL  IN  THE  JEWS’  QUARTER,  AMSTERDAM 


WIVES  OF  THE  PAST 


163 


heroism  and  address  of  the  widow  Kenau  Hasselaer  during 
the  siege  of  Haarlem.  Davies  has  an  interesting  page  or  two 
on  this  subject : To  be  master  of  his  own  house  is  an  idea 

which  seems  never  to  have  occurred  to  the  mind  of  a genuine 
Dutchman ; nor  did  he  often  commence  any  undertaking, 
whether  public  or  private,  without  first  consulting  the 
partner  of  his  cares ; and  it  is  even  said,  that  some  of  the 
statesmen  most  distinguished  for  their  influence  in  the 
affairs  of  their  own  country  and  Europe  in  general,  were 
accustomed  to  receive  instructions  at  home  to  which  they 
ventured  not  to  go  counter.  But  the  dominion  of  these 
lordly  dames,  all  despotic  though  it  were,  was  ever  exerted 
for  the  benefit  of  those  who  obeyed.  It  was  the  earnest 
and  undaunted  spirit  of  their  women,  which  encouraged 
the  Dutch  to  dare,  and  their  calm  fortitude  to  endure,  the 
toils,  privations,  and  sufferings  of  the  first  years  of  the  war 
of  independence  against  Spain ; it  was  their  activity  and 
thrift  in  the  management  of  their  private  incomes,  that 
supplied  them  with  the  means  of  defraying  an  amount  of 
national  expenditure  wholly  unexampled  in  history ; and 
to  their  influence  is  to  be  ascribed  above  all,  the  decorum 
of  manners,  and  the  purity  of  morals,  for  which  the  society 
of  Holland  has  at  all  times  been  remarkable.  But  though 
they  preserved  their  virtue  and  modesty  uncontaminated 
amid  the  general  coiTuption,  they  were  no  longer  able  to 
maintain  their  sway.  The  habit  which  the  Dutch  youth 
had  acquired,  among  other  foreign  customs,  of  seeking 
amusement  abroad,  rendered  them  less  dependent  for  happi- 
ness on  the  comforts  of  a married  life ; while,  accustomed 
to  the  more  dazzling  allurements  of  the  women  of  France 
and  Italy,  they  were  apt  to  overlook  or  despise  the  quiet 
and  unobtrusive  beauties  of  those  of  their  own  country. 
Whether  they  did  not  better  consult  their  own^dignity  in 


164 


A HOME  OF  PEACE 


emancipating  themselves  from  , this  subjection  may  be 
a question ; but  the  fact,  that  the  decline  of  the  re- 
public and  of  the  female  sex  went  hand  in  hand,  is 
indubitable.” 

To  return  to  Amsterdam’s  sights,  the  church  which  I 
remember  with  most  pleasure  is  the  English  Reformed 
Church,  which  many  visitors  never  succeed  in  finding  at 
all,  but  to  which  I was  taken  by  a Dutch  lady  who  knew 
my  tastes.  You  seek  the  Spui,  where  the  electric  trams 
start  for  Haarlem,  and  enter  a very  small  doorway  on  the 
north  side.  It  seems  to  lead  to  a private  house,  but  instead 
you  find  yourself  in  a very  beautiful  little  enclosure  of  old 
and  quaint  buildings,  exquisitely  kept,  each  with  a screen 
of  pollarded  chestnuts  before  it ; in  the  midst  of  which  is  a 
toy  white  church  with  a gay  little  spire  that  might  have 
wandered  out  of  a fairy  tale.  The  enclosure  is  called  The 
Regijnenhof,  or  Court  of  the  Begijnen,  a little  sisterhood 
named  after  St.  Begga,  daughter  of  Pipinus,  Duke  of 
Brabant, — a saint  who  lived  at  the  end  of  the  seventh 
century  and  whose  day  in  the  Roman  Catholic  Calendar  is 
December  17. 

The  church  was  originally  the  church  of  these  nuns,  but 
when  the  old  religion  was  overthrown  in  Amsterdam,  in 
1578,  it  was  taken  from  them,  although  they  were  allowed 
— as  happily  they  still  are — to  retain  possession  of  the 
court  around  it. 

In  1607  the  church  passed  into  the  possession  of  a settle- 
ment of  Scotch  weavers  who  had  been  invited  to  Amsterdam 
by  the  merchants,  and  who  had  made  it  a condition  of  ac- 
ceptance that  they  should  have  a conventicle  of  their  own. 
It  is  now  a resort  of  English  church-going  visitors  on 
Sunday. 

Most  of  Holland’s  churches — as  of  England’s — once  be- 


BLACK  AND  RED 


165 


longed  to  Rome,  and  it  is  impossible  to  forget  their  ancient 
ownership ; but  I remember  no  other  case  where  the  new 
religion  is  practised,  as  in  the  Begijnenhof,  in  the  heart 
of  the  enemy’s  camp.  In  the  very  midst  of  the  homes  of 
the  quiet  sweet  Begijnen  sisters  are  the  voices  of  the  usurp- 
ing Reformers  heard  in  prayer  and  praise. 

One  little  concession,  however,  was  made  by  the  appropri* 
atoi*s  of  the  chapel.  Until  as  recently  as  1865  a special  part 
of  the  building  the  original  Roman  consecration  of  which 
had  not  been  nullified  was  retained  by  the  sisterhood  in 
which  to  bury  their  dead.  The  ceremony  was  very  im- 
pressive. Twelve  of  the  nuns  carried  their  dead  com- 
panion three  times  round  the  court  before  entering  the 
church.  But  all  that  is  over,  and  now  they  must  seek 
burial  elsewhere,  without  their  borders. 

One  may  leave  the  Begijnenhof  by  the  other  passage 
into  Kalvei^straat,  and  walking  up  that  busy  street  towards 
the  Dam,  turn  down  the  St.  Lucien  Steeg,  on  the  left,  to 
another  of  Amsterdam’s  homes  of  ancient  peace — the  muni- 
cipal orphanage,  which  was  once  the  Convent  of  St.  Lucien. 
The  Dutch  are  exceedingly  kind  to  their  poor,  and  the 
orphanages  and  almshouses  (Oudemannen  and  Oudevrouwen 
houses  as  they  are  called)  are  very  numerous.  The  Muni- 
cipal Orphanage  of  Amsterdam  is  among  the  most  interest- 
ing ; and  it  is  to  this  refuge  that  the  girls  and  boys  belong 
whom  one  sees  so  often  in  the  streets  of  the  city  in  curious 
parti-coloured  costume — red  and  black  vertically  divided. 
The  Amsterdamsche  burger weesmeisjes,  as  the  girls  are 
called,  make  in  procession  a very  pretty  and  impressive  sight 
— with  theii*  white  tippets  and  caps  above  their  dresses  of 
black  and  red. 

This  reminds  me  that  one  of  the  most  agreeable  perfor- 
mances that  I saw  in  any  of  the  Dutch  music  halls  (which 


166 


HALLS  OP  VARIETY 


are  not  good,  and  which  are  rendered  very  tedious  to  English 
people  by  reason  of  the  interminable  interval  called  the 
Pause  in  the  middle  of  the  evening),  was  a series  of  folk 
songs  and  dances  by  eight  girls  known  as  the  Orange 
Blossoms,  dressed  in  different  traditional  costumes  of  the 
north  and  south — Friesland,  Marken,  and  Zeeland.  They 
were  quite  charming.  They  sang  and  danced  very  prettily, 
as  housewives,  as  fisher  girls,  but  particularly  as  Amster- 
damsche  burgerweesmeisjes. 

In  the  music  halls  both  at  Amsterdam  and  Rotterdam  I 
listened  to  comic  singers  inexorably  endowed  with  too  many 
songs  apiece ; but  I saw  also  some  of  those  amazing  feats 
of  acrobatic  skill  and  exhibitions  of  clean  strength  which 
alone  should  cause  people  to  encourage  these  places  of 
entertainment,  where  the  standard  of  excellence  in  such 
displays  is  now  so  high.  I did  not  go  to  the  theatre  in 
Holland.  My  Dutch  was  too  elementary  for  that.  My 
predecessor  Ireland,  however,  did  so,  and  saw  an  amusing 
piece  of  literalness  introduced  into  Hamlet,  In  the  im- 
passioned scene,  he  tells  us,  between  the  prince  and  his 
mother,  “ when  the  hero  starts  at  the  imagined  appearance 
of  his  father,  his  wig,  by  means  of  a concealed  spring, 
jumped  from  ^ the  seat  of  his  distracted  brain,’  and  left 
poor  Hamlet  as  bare  as  a Dutch  willow  in  winter.” 

The  Oude  Kerk  has  very  beautiful  bells,  but  Amsterdam 
is  no  place  in  which  to  hear  such  sweet  sounds.  The 
little  towns  for  bells.  Near  the  church  is  the  New  Market, 
with  the  very  charming  old  weigh-house  with  little  ex- 
tinguisher spires  called  the  St.  Anthonysveeg.  Here  the 
fish  market  is  held;  and  the  fish  market  of  a city  like 
Amsterdam  should  certainly  be  visited.  The  Old  Market 
is  on  the  western  side  of  the  Dam,  under  the  western 
church.  ‘‘It  is  said,”  remarks  the  author  of  Through 


NATIONS  OF  SHOPKEEPERS 


167 


Noord-Holland^  ‘‘  that  Rembrandt  has  been  buried  in  this 
church,  though  his  grave  has  never  been  found.” 

Napoleon’s  sarcasm  upon  the  English — that  they  were 
a nation  of  shopkeepers — never  seemed  to  me  very  shrewd  : 
but  in  Holland  one  realises  that  if  any  nation  is  to  be  thus 
signally  stigmatised  it  is  not  the  English.  As  a matter  of 
fact  we  are  very  indifferent  shopkeepers.  We  lack  several 
of  the  needful  qualities  : we  lack  foresight,  the  sense  of 
order  and  organised  industry,  and  the  strength  of  mind 
to  resist  the  temptations  following  upon  a great  coup.  A 
nation  of  shopkeepers  would  not  go  back  on  the  shop  so 
completely  as  we  do.  No  nation  that  is  essentially  snob- 
bish can  be  accurately  summed  up  as  a nation  of  shop- 
keepers. The  French  for  all  their  distracting  gifts  of  art 
and  mockery  are  better  shopkeepers  than  we,  largely  be- 
cause they  are  more  sensibly  contented.  They  take  short 
views  and  live  each  day  more  fully.  But  the  Dutch  are 
better  still ; the  Dutch  are  truly  a nation  of  shopkeepers. 

If  one  would  see  the  Amsterdam  merchant  as  the  satirist 
sees  him,  the  locus  classicus  is  Multatuli’s  famous  novel 
Max  Havelaar^  where  he  stands  delightfully  nude  in  the 
person  of  Mr.  Drystubble,  head  of  the  firm  of  Last  and 
Co.,  Coffee-brokers,  No.  37  Laurier  Canal.  Max  Havelaar 
was  published  in  the  early  sixties  to  draw  attention  to 
certain  scandals  in  Dutch  colonial  administration,  and  it 
has  lived  on,  and  will  live,  by  reason  of  a curious  blend  of 
vivacity  and  intensity.  Here  is  a little  piece  of  Mr.  Dry- 
stubble’s  mind  : — 

Business  is  slack  on  the  Coffee  Exchange.  The  Spring  Auction  will 
make  it  right  again.  Don’t  suppose,  however,  that  we  have  nothing 
to  do.  At  Busselinck  and  Waterman’s  trade  is  slacker  still.  It  is  a 
strange  world  this:  one  gets  a deal  of  experience  by  frequenting  the 
Exchange  for  twenty  years.  Only  fancy  that  they  have  tried — I mean 
Busselinck  and  Waterman — to  do  me  out  of  the  custom  of  Ludwig  Stern. 


168 


DRYSTUBBLE 


As  I do  not  know  whether  you  are  familiar  with  the  Exchange,  I will  tell 
you  that  Stern  is  an  eminent  coffee-merchant  in  Hamburg,  who  always 
employed  Last  and  Co.  Quite  accidentally  I found  that  out — I mean 
that  bungling  business  of  Busselinck  and  Waterman.  They  had  offered 
to  reduce  the  brokerage  by  one-fourth  per  cent.  They  are  low  fellows — 
nothing  else.  And  now  look  what  I have  done  to  stop  them.  Any  one 
in  my  place  would  perhaps  have  written  to  Ludwig  Stern,  “ that  we  too 
would  diminish  the  brokerage,  and  that  we  hoped  for  consideration  on 
account  of  the  long  services  of  Last  and  Co.” 

I have  calculated  that  our  firm,  during  the  last  fifty  years,  has  gained 
four  hundred  thousand  guilders  by  Stern.  Our  connexion  dates  from 
the  beginning  of  the  continental  system,  when  we  smuggled  Colonial 
produce  and  such  like  things  from  Heligoland.  No,  I won’t  reduce  the 
brokerage. 

I went  to  the  Polen  coffee-house,  ordered  pen  and  paper,  and  wrote  : — 

“ That  because  of  the  many  honoured  commissions  received  from 
North  Germany,  our  business  transactions  had  been  extended” — (it  is  the 
simple  truth) — “ and  that  this  necessitated  an  augmentation  of  our  staff” — 
(it  is  the  truth : no  more  than  yesterday  evening  our  bookkeeper  was  in 
the  office  after  eleven  o’clock  to  look  for  his  spectacles) ; — “ that,  above 
all  things,  we  were  in  want  of  respectable,  educated  young  men  to  con- 
duct the  German  correspondence.  That,  certainly,  there  were  many 
young  Germans  in  Amsterdam,  who  possessed  the  requisite  qualifications, 
but  that  a respectable  firm  ” — (it  is  the  very  truth), — “ seeing  the  frivolity 
and  immorality  of  young  men,  and  the  daily  increasing  number  of  ad- 
venturers, and  with  an  eye  to  the  necessity  of  making  correctness  of 
conduct  go  hand  in  hand  with  correctness  in  the  execution  of  orders  ” — 
(it  is  the  truth,  I observe,  and  nothing  but  the  truth), — “ that  such  a firm 
— I mean  Last  and  Co.,  coffee-brokers,  37  Laurier  Canal — could  not  be 
anxious  enough  in  engaging  new  hands.” 

All  that  is  the  simple  truth,  reader.  Do  you  know  that  the  young 
German  who  always  stood  at  the  Exchange,  near  the  seventeenth  pillar, 
has  eloped  with  the  daughter  of  Busselinck  and  Waterman  ? Our  Mary, 
like  her,  will  be  thirteen  years  old  in  September. 

“ That  I had  the  honour  to  hear  from  Mr.  Saffeler  ” — (Saffeler  travels  for 
Stern) — “ that  the  honoured  head  of  the  firm,  Ludwig  Stern,  had  a son,  Mr. 
Ernest  Stern,  who  wished  for  employment  for  some  time  in  a Dutch  house. 

“ That  I,  mindful  of  this  ” — (here  I referred  again  to  the  immorality  of 
employes^  and  also  the  history  of  that  daughter  of  Busselinck  and  Water- 
man ; it  won’t  do  any  harm  to  tell  it) — “ that  I,  mindful  of  this,  wished, 
with  all  my  heart,  to  offer  Mr.  Ernest  Stern  the  German  correspondence 
of  our  firm.” 


BETSY’S  MURDERER  169 

From  delicacy  I avoided  all  allusion  to  honorarium  or  salary ; yet  I 
said : — 

“ That  if  Mr.  Ernest  Stern  would  like  to  stay  with  us,  at  37  Laurier 
Canal,  my  wife  would  care  for  him  as  a mother,  and  have  his  linen 
mended  in  the  house  ” — (that  is  the  very  truth,  for  Mary  sews  and  knits 
very  well), — and  in  conclusion  I said,  “that  we  were  a religious  family." 

The  last  sentence  may  do  good,  for  the  Sterns  are  Lutherans.  I 
posted  that  letter.  You  understand  that  old  Mr.  Stern  could  not  very 
well  give  his  custom  to  Busselinck  and  Waterman,  if  his  son  were  in  our 
office. 

When  Max  Havelaar  gets  to  Java  the  narrative  is  less 
satisfactory,  so  tangential  does  it  become,  but  there  are 
enough  passages  in  the  manner  of  that  which  I have  quoted 
to  keep  one  happy,  and  to  show  how  entertaining  a satirist 
of  his  own  countrymen  at  home  “ Multatuli  ” (whose  real 
name  was  Edward  Douwes  Dekker)  might  have  been  had 
he  been  possessed  by  no  grievance. 

The  book,  which  is  very  well  worth  reading,  belongs  to 
the  literature  of  humanity  and  protest.  Its  author  had 
to  suffer  much  acrimonious  attack,  and  was  probably 
called  a Little  Hollander,  but  the  fragment  from  an  un- 
published play  which  he  placed  as  a motto  to  his  book 
shows  him  to  have  lacked  no  satirical  power  to  meet  the 
enemy  : — 

Officer. — My  Lord,  this  is  the  man  who  murdered  Betsy. 

Judge. — He  must  hang  for  it.  How  did  he  do  it  ? 

Officer. — He  cut  up  her  body  in  little  pieces,  and  salted  them. 

Judge. — He  is  a great  criminal.  He  must  hang  for  it. 

Lothario. — My  Lord,  I did  not  murder  Betsy:  I fed  and  clothed 
and  cherished  her.  I can  call  witnesses  who  will  prove  me  to  be  a good 
man,  and  no  murderer. 

Judge. — You  must  hang.  You  blacken  your  crime  by  your  self- 
sufficiency.  It  ill  becomes  one  who  ...  is  accused  of  anything  to  set 
up  for  a good  man. 

Lothario. — But,  my  Lord,  . . . there  are  witnesses  to  prove  it ; and 
as  I am  now  accused  of  murder  . . . 

Judge. — You  must  hang  for  it.  You  cut  up  Betsy — you  salted  the 


170 


A COUNTRY  OF  ESSENTIALS 


pieces — and  you  are  satisfied  with  your  conduct — three  capital  counts— 
v/ho  are  you,  my  good  woman  ? 

Woman. — I am  Betsy. 

Lothario. — Thank  God ! You  see,  my  Lord,  that  I did  not  murder 
her. 

Judge. — Humph  ! — ay — ^what ! — What  about  the  salting  ? 

Betsy. — No,  my  Lord,  he  did  not  salt  me : — on  the  contrary,  he  did 
many  things  for  me  ...  he  is  a worthy  man  ! 

Lothario,— You  hear,  my  Lord,  she  says  I am  an  honest  man  ! 

Judge. — Humph! — the  third  count  remains.  Officer,  remove  the 
prisoner,  he  must  hang  for  it ; he  is  guilty  of  self-conceit. 

Shopkeeping — to  return  to  Amsterdam — is  the  Dutch 
people’s  life.  An  idle  rich  class  they  may  have,  but  it  does 
not  assert  itself.  It  is  hidden^  away  at  The  Hague  or  at 
Arnheim.  In  Amsterdam  every  one  is  busy  in  one  trade 
or  another.  There  is  no  Pall  Mall,  no  Rotten  Row.  There 
is  no  Bond  Street  or  Rue  de  la  Paix,  for  this  is  a country 
where  money  tries  to  procure  money’s  worth,  a country 
of  essentials.  Nor  has  Holland  a Lord’s  or  an  Oval,  Epsom 
Downs  or  Hurlingham. 

Perhaps  the  quickest  way  to  visualise  the  differences  of 
nations  is  to  imagine  them  exchanging  countries.  If  the 
English  were  to  move  to  Holland  the  whole  face  of  the 
land  would  immediately  be  changed.  In  summer  the  flat 
meadows  near  the  towns,  now  given  up  to  cows  and  plovers, 
would  be  dotted  with  cricketers ; in  winter  with  football- 
players.  Outriggers  and  canoes,  punts  and  house-boats, 
would  break  out  on  the  canals.  In  the  villages  such  strange 
phenomena  as  idle  gentlemen  in  knickerbockers  and  idle 
ladies  with  parasols  would  suddenly  appear. 

To  continue  the  list  of  changes  (but  not  for  too  long) 
the  trains  would  begin  to  be  late ; from  the  waiting-rooms 
all  free  newspapers  would  be  stolen  ; churches  would  be 
made  more  comfortable ; hundreds  of  newspapers  would 
exist  where  now  only  a handful  are  sufficient ; the  hour 


ICE  V.  CHAPERON 


171 


of  breakfast  would  be  later;  business  would  begin  later; 
drunken  men  would  be  seen  in  the  streets,  dirt  in  the 
cottages. 

If  the  Dutch  came  to  England  the  converse  would 
happen.  The  athletic  grounds  would  become  pasture  land  ; 
the  dirt  of  our  slums  and  the  gentry  of  our  villages  would 
alike  vanish;  Westminster  Abbey  would  be  whitewashed; 
and  . . . But  I have  said  enough. 

It  must  not  be  thought  that  the  Dutch  play  no  games. 
As  a matter  of  fact  they  were  playing  golf,  as  old  pictures 
tell,  before  it  had  found  its  way  to  England  at  all ; and 
there  are  now  many  golf  clubs  in  Holland.  The  Dutch 
are  excellent  also  at  lawn  tennis ; and  I saw  the  youth  of 
Franeker  very  busy  in  a curious  variety  of  rounders.  There 
are  horse-racing  meetings  and  trotting  competitions  too. 
But  the  nation  is  not  naturally  athletic  or  sporting.  It 
does  not  even  walk  except  on  business. 

In  winter,  however,  the  Dutch  are  completely  trans- 
formed. No  sooner  does  the  ice  bear  than  the  whole  people 
begin  to  glide,  and  swirl,  and  live  their  lives  to  the  poetry 
of  motion.  The  canals  then  become  the  real  streets  of 
Amsterdam.  A Dutch  lady — a mother  and  a grandmother 
— threw  up  her  hands  as  she  told  me  about  the  skating 
parties  to  the  Zuyder  Zee.  The  skate,  it  seems,  is  as  much 
the  enemy  of  the  chaperon  as  the  bicycle,  although  its 
reign  is  briefer.  Upon  this  subject  I am  personally  ignor- 
ant, but  I take  that  gesture  of  alarm  as  final. 

And  yet  M.  Havard,  who  had  a Frenchman’s  eye  and 
therefore  knew,  says  that  if  Etna  in  full  eruption  were  taken 
to  Holland,  at  the  end  of  the  week  it  would  have  ceased 
even  to  smoke,  so  destructive  to  enthusiasm  is  the  well- 
disciplined  nature  of  the  Dutch  woman. 

M.  Havard  refen^ed  rather  to  the  women  of  the  open 


in 


IF  THERE  WERE  TREES 


country  than  the  dwellers  in  the  town.  I can  understand 
the  rural  coolness,  for  Holland  is  a land  without  mystery. 
Everything  is  plain  and  bare : a man  in  a balloon  would 
know  the  amours  of  the  whole  populace.  What  chance 
has  Cupid  when  there  are  no  groves  ? But  let  Holland  be 
afforested  and  her  daughters  would  keep  Etna  burning 
warmly  enough;  for  I am  persuaded  that  it  is  not  that 
they  are  cold  but  that  the  physical  development  of  the 
country  is  against  them. 


CHAPTER  XI 

AMSTERDAM’S  PICTURES 


Dutch  art  in  the  palmy  days — The  Renaissance — A miracle — What 
Holland  did  for  painting— The  “ Night  Watch  ” — Rembrandt’s 
isolation — Captain  Franz  Banning  Cocq — Elizabeth  Bas — The  Staal- 
meesters — If  one  might  choose  one  picture— Vermeer  of  Delft  again — 
Whistler — “ Paternal  Advice  ” — Terburg — The  romantic  Frenchmen 
again — The  Dutch  painter’s  ideal — The  two  Maris — Old  Dutch 
rooms — The  Six  Collection— “ Six’s  Bridge  ” and  the  wager — The 
Fodor  Museum. 

The  superlative  excellence  of  Dutch  painting  in  the 
seventeenth  century  has  never  been  explained,  and 
probably  never  will  be.  The  ordinary  story  is  that  on 
settling  down  to  a period  of  independence  and  comparative 
peace  and  prosperity  after  the  cessation  of  the  Spanish 
war,  the  Dutch  people  called  for  good  art,  and  good  art 
came.  But  that  is  too  simple.  That  a poet,  a statesman 
or  a novelist  should  be  produced  in  response  to  a national 
desire  is  not  inconceivable ; for  poets,  statesmen  and  novel- 
ists find  their  material  in  the  air,  as  we  say,  in  the  ideas 
of  the  moment.  They  are  for  the  most  part  products  of 
their  time.  But  the  great  Dutch  painters  of  the  seven- 
teenth century  were  expressing  no  real  idea.  Nor,,  even 
supposing  they  had  done  so,  is  it  to  be  understood  how 
the  demand  for  them  should  yield  such  a supply  of  unsur- 
passed technical  power : how  a perfectly  disciplined  hand 
should  be  instantly  at  the  public  service. 


174 


THE  CALL  FOR  GENIUS 


That  Holland  in  an  expansive  mood  of  satisfaction  at 
her  success  should  have  wished  to  see  groups  of  her  gallant 
arquebusiers  and  portraits  of  her  eminent  burghers  is  not 
to  be  wondered  at,  and  we  can  understand  that  respectable 
painters  of  such  pictures  should  arise  in  some  force  to 
supply  the  need— just  as  wherever  in  this  country  at  the 
present  day  there  are  cricketers  and  actresses,  there  also 
are  photographers.  That  painters  of  ordinary  merit  should 
be  forthcoming  is,  as  I have  said,  no  wonder : the  mystery 
is  that  masters  of  technique  whose  equal  has  never  been 
before  or  since  should  have  arisen  in  such  numbers ; that 
in  the  space  of  a few  years — between  say  1590  and  1635 — 
should  have  been  born  in  a country  never  before  given  to 
the  cultivation  of  the  arts  Rembrandt  and  Jan  Steen, 
Vermeer  and  De  Hooch,  Van  der  Heist  and  Gerard  Dou, 
Fabritius  and  Maes,  Ostade  and  Van  Goyen,  Potter  and 
Ruisdael,  Terburg  and  Cuyp.  That  is  the  staggering 
thing. 

Another  curious  circumstance  is  that  by  1700  it  was 
practically  all  over,  and  Dutch  art  had  become  a conven- 
tion. The  gods  had  gone.  Not  until  very  recently  has 
Holland  had  any  but  half  gods  since. 

It  may  of  course  be  urged  that  Italy  had  witnessed  a 
somewhat  similar  phenomenon.  But  the  spiritual  stimulus 
of  the  Renaissance  among  the  naturally  artistic  southerners 
cannot,  I think,  be  compared  with  the  stimulus  given  by 
the  establishment  of  prosperity  to  these  cold  and  material 
northerners.  The  making  of  great  Italian  art  was  a 
gradual  process:  the  Dutch  masters  sprang  forth  fully 
armed  at  the  first  word  of  command.  In  the  preceding 
generation  the  Rembrandts  had  been  millers ; the  Steens 
brewers ; the  Dous  glaziers ; and  so  forth.  But  the 
demand  for  pictures  having  sounded,  their  sons  were 


A FIRESIDE  FRIEND 


175 


prepared  to  be  painters  of  the  first  magnitude.  Why  try 
to  explain  this  amazing  event?  Let  there  rather  be 
miracles. 

I have  said  that  the  great  Dutch  painters  expressed  no 
idea  ; and  yet  this  is  not  perfectly  true.  They  expressed 
no  constructive  idea,  in  the  way  that  a poet  or  statesman 
does  ; but  all  had  this  in  common,  that  they  were  informed 
by  the  desire  to  represent  things — intimate  and  local  things 
— as  they  are.  The  great  Italians  had  gone  to  religion  and 
mythology  for  their  subjects : nearer  at  hand,  in  Antwerp, 
Rubens  was  pursuing,  according  to  his  lights,  the  same 
tradition.  The  great  Dutchmen  were  the  first  painters 
to  bend  their  genius  exclusively  to  the  honour  of  their 
own  country,  its  .worthies,  its  excesses,  its  domestic  virtues, 
its  trivial  dailiness.  Hals  and  Rembrandt  lavished  their 
power  on  Dutch  arquebusiers  and  governors  of  hospitals, 
Dutch  burgomasters  and  physicians ; Ostade  and  Brouwer 
saw  no  indignity  in  painting  Dutch  sots  as  well  as  Dutch 
sots  could  be  painted ; De  Hooch  introduced  miracles  of 
sunlight  into  Dutch  cottages;  Maes  painted  old  Dutch 
housewives,  and  Metsu  young  Dutch  housewives,  to  the 
life ; Vermeer  and  Terburg  immortalised  Dutch  ladies  at 
their  spinets ; Albert  Cuyp  toiled  to  suffuse  Dutch  meadows 
and  Dutch  cows  with  a golden  glow;  Jan  Steen  glorified 
the  humblest  Dutch  family  scenes ; Gerard  Dou  spent 
whole  weeks  upon  the  fingers  of  a common  Dutch  hand. 
In  short,  art  that  so  long  had  been  at  the  service  only  of 
the  Church  and  the  proud,  became  suddenly,  without 
losing  any  of  its  divinity,  a fireside  friend.  That  is  what 
Holland  did  for  painting. 

It  would  have  been  a great  enjoyment  to  me  to  have 
made  this  chapter  a companion  to  the  Ryks  Museum : to 
have  said  a few  words  about  all  the  pictures  which  I like 


176 


THE  NIGHT  WATCH 


best.  But  had  I done  so  the  rest  of  the  book  would  have 
had  to  go,  for  all  my  space  would  have  been  exhausted. 
And  therefore,  as  I cannot  say  all  I want  to  say,  I propose 
to  say  very  little,  keeping  only  to  the  most  importunate 
pictures.  Here  and  there  in  this  book,  particularly  in  the 
chapters  on  Dordrecht,  Haarlem,  and  Leyden’s  painters, 
I have  already  touched  on  many  of  them. 

The  particular  shining  glory  of  the  Ryks  Museum  is 
Rembrandt’s  “Night  Watch,”  and  it  is  well,  I think,  to 
make  for  that  picture  at  once.  The  direct  approach  is 
down  the  Gallery  of  Honour,  where  one  has  this  wonder- 
ful canvas  before  one  all  the  way,  as  near  life  as  perhaps 
any  picture  ever  painted.  It  is  possible  at  first  to  be  dis- 
appointed : expectation  perhaps  had  been  running  too 
high ; the  figure  of  the  lieutenant  (in  the  yellow  jerkin) 
may  strike  one  as  a little  mean.  But  do  not  let  this 
distress  you.  Settle  down  on  one  of  the  seats  and  take 
Rembrandt  easily,  “ as  the  leaf  upon  the  tree  ” ; settle 
down  on  another,  and  from  the  new  point  of  view  take 
him  easily,  “ as  the  grass  upon  the  weir  ”.  Look  at  Van 
der  Heist’s  fine  company  of  arquebusiers  on  one  of  the  side 
walls ; look  at  Franz  Hals’  company  of  arquebusiers  on  the 
other ; then  look  at  Rembrandt  again.  Every  minute  his 
astounding  power  is  winning  upon  you.  Walk  again  up 
the  Gallery  of  Honour  and  turning  quickly  at  the  end, 
see  how  much  light  there  is  in  the  “Night  Watch”. 
Advance  upon  it  slowly.  . . . This  is  certainly  the  finest 
technical  triumph  of  pigment  that  you  have  seen.  What 
a glow  and  greatness. 

After  a while'  it  becomes  evident  that  Rembrandt  was 
the  only  man  who  ought  to  have  painted  arquebusiers  at 
all.  Van  der  Heist  and  Franz  Hals  are  sinking  to  the 
level  of  gifted  amateurs.  Why  did  not  Rembrandt  paint 


From  the  picture  in  the  Ryks  Museum 


THE  REMBRANDTS 


177 


all  the  pictures?  you  begin  to  wonder.  And  yet  the 
Hals  and  the  Van  der  Heists  were  so  good  a little  while 
ago. 

Hals  and  Van  der  Heist  are,  however,  to  recover  their 
own  again  ; for  the  “ Night  Watch,”  I am  told,  is  to 
be  moved  to  a building  especially  erected  for  it,  where 
the  lighting  will  be  more  satisfactory  than  connoisseurs 
now  consider  it.  Perhaps  it  is  as  well.  It  is  hard  to 
be  so  near  the  rose  ; and  there  are  few  pictures  in  the 
recesses  of  the  Gallery  of  Honour  which  the  Night 
Watch  ” does  not  weaken ; some  indeed  it  makes  quite 
foolish. 

It  is  not  of  course  really  a night  watch  at  all.  Captain 
Franz  Banning  Cocq’s  arquebusiers  are  leaving  their  Doelen 
in  broad  day;  the  centralisation  of  sunlight  from  a high 
window  led  to  the  mistake,  and  nothing  now  will  ever 
change  the  title. 

How  little  these  careless  gallant  arquebusiers,  who  paid 
the  painter-man  a hundred  florins  apiece  to  be  included  in 
the  picture,  can  have  thought  of  the  destiny  of  the  work ! 
Of  Captain  Franz  Banning  Cocq  as  a soldier  we  know 
nothing,  but  as  a sitter  he  is  hardly  second  to  any  in  the 
world. 

But  it  is  not  the  Night  Watch”  that  I recall  with  the 
greatest  pleasure  when  I think  of  the  Ryks  Rembrandts. 
It  is  that  wise  and  serene  old  lady  in  the  Van  der  Poll 
room — Elizabeth  Bas — who  sits  there  for  all  time,  un- 
surpassed among  portraits.  This  picture  alone  is  worth 
a visit  to  Holland.  I recall  also,  not  with  more  pleasure 
than  the  Night  Watch,”  but  with  little  less,  the  superb 
group  of  syndics  in  the  Staalmeester  room.  It  is  this 
picture — with  the  “School  of  Anatomy”  at  The  Hague — 
that  in  particular  makes  one  wish  it  had  been  possible  for 
12 


178 


IF  ONE  MIGHT  CHOOSE 


all  the  Corporation  pieces  to  have  been  from  Rembrandt^s 
brush.  It  is  this  picture  which  deprives  even  Hals  of  some 
of  his  divinity,  and  makes  Van  der  Heist  a dull  dog.  If 
ever  a picture  of  Dutch  gentlemen  was  painted  by  a Dutch 
gentleman  it  is  this. 

Having  seen  the  Night  IVatch”  again,  it  is  a good 
plan  to  study  the  Gallery  of  Honour.  To  pick  out  one’s 
favourite  picture  is  here  not  difficult : it  is  No.  1501,  ‘‘The 
Endless  Prayer,”  by  Nicolas  Maes,  of  which  I have  said 
something  in  the  chapter  on  Dordrecht,  the  painter’s  birth- 
place. Its  place  is  very  little  below  that  of  Elizabeth  Bas, 
by  Maes’s  master. 

It  is  always  interesting  in  a fine  gallery  to  ask  oneself 
which  single  picture  one  would  choose  before  all  others  if 
such  a privilege  were  offered.  The  answer  if  honest  is  a 
sure  revelation  of  temperament,  for  one  would  select  of  a 
certainty  a picture  satisfying  one’s  prevailing  moods  rather 
than  a picture  of  any  sensational  character.  In  other  words, 
the  picture  would  have  to  be  good  to  live  with.  To  choose 
from  thousands  of  masterpieces  one  only  is  a very  delicate 
test. 

If  the  Dutch  Government,  stimulated  to  gratitude  for 
the  encomiastic  character  of  the  present  book,  were  to  offer 
me  my  choice  of  the  Ryks  Museum  pictures  I should  not 
hesitate  a moment.  I should  take  No.  2527 — “Woman 
Reading  a Letter”  (damaged),  by  Vermeer  of  Delft.  You 
will  see  a reproduction  in  black  and  white  on  the  opposite 
page ; but  how  wide  a gulf  between  the  picture  and  the 
process  block.  The  jacket,  for  example,  is  the  most  lovely 
cool  blue  imaginable. 

This  picture,  apart  from  its  beauty,  is  interesting  as  an 
illustration  of  the  innovating  courage  of  Vermeer.  Who 
else  at  that  date  would  have  placed  the  woman’s  head 


THE  READER 

JAN  VERMEER 

From  the  picture  in  the  Ryks  Museum 


MONEY  POWERLESS 


179 


against  a map  almost  its  own  colour  ? Many  persons  think 
that  such  daring  began  with  Whistler.  It  is,  however, 
Terburg  who  most  often  suggests  Whistler.  Vermeer  had, 
I think,  a rarer  distinction  than  Terburg.  Vermeer  would 
never  have  painted  such  a crowded  group  (however  masterly) 
as  that  of  Terburg’s  Peace  of  Munster  ” in  our  National 
Gallery ; he  could  not  have  brought  himself  so  to  pack 
humanity.  Among  all  the  Dutch  masters  I find  no  such 
fastidious  aristocrat. 

He,  Vermeer,  has  another  picture  at  the  Ryks — ‘‘De 
brief”  (No.  2528) — which  technically  is  wonderful;  but 
the  whole  effect  is  artificial  and  sophisticated,  very  different 
from  his  best  transparent  mood. 

Any  mortification,  by  the  way,  which  I might  suffer 
from  the  knowledge  that  No.  2527  can  never  be  mine  is 
allayed  by  the  knowledge,  equally  certain,  that  it  can 
never  be  any  one  else’s.  Money  is  powerless  here.  To 
the  offer  of  a Rothschild  the  Government  would  retui’n  as 
emphatic  a negative  as  to  a request  from  me. 

The  room  in  wliich  is  Vermeer's  Reader  ” contains  also 
Maes’s  ^‘Spinning  Woman”  (see  page  230),  two  or  three 
Peter  de  Hoochs  and  the  best  Jan  Steen  in  the  Ryks. 
It  is  indeed  a room  to  linger  in,  and  to  return  to,  inde- 
finitely. De  Hooch’s  “ Store  Room  ” (No.  1248),  of  which 
I have  already  spoken,  is  in  one  of  the  little  ^‘Cabinet 
piece  ” rooms,  which  are  not  too  well  lighted.  Here  also 
one  may  spend  many  hours,  and  then  many  hours  more. 

The  Peace  of  Munster  ” has  been  called  Terburg’s 
masterpiece : but  the  girl  in  his  Paternal  Advice,”  No. 
570  at  the  Ryks,  seems  to  me  a finer  achievement.  The 
grace  and  beauty  and  truth  of  her  pose  and  the  miraculous 
painting  of  her  dress  are  unrivalled.  Yet  judged  as  a 
picture  it  is,  I think,  dull.  The  colouring  is  dingy,  time 


180 


TERBURG 


has  not  dealt  kindly  with  the  background ; but  the  figure 
of  the  girl  is  perfect.  I give  a reproduction  opposite  page 
190.  It  wasXthis  picture,  in  one  of  its  replicas,  that  Goethe 
describes  in  his  Elective  Affinities  : a description  which  pro- 
cured for  it  the  probably  inaccurate  title  “ Parental 
Advice 

We  have  a fine  Terburg  in  our  National  Gallery — ^‘The 
Music  Lesson  ” — and  here  too  is  his  “ Peace  of  Munster,” 
which  certainly  was  a great  feat  of  painting,  but  which 
does  not,  I think,  reproduce  his  peculiar  characteristics  and 
charm.  These  may  be  found  somewhere  between  The 
Music  Lesson  ” and  the  portrait  next  the  Vermeer  in  the 
smallest  of  the  three  Dutch  rooms.  Even  more  ingratia- 
ting than  The  Music  Lesson  ” is  The  Toilet  ” at  the 
Wallace  Collection.  Terburg  might  be  called  a pocket 
Velasquez — a description  of  him  which  will  be  appreciated 
at  the  Ryks  Museum  in  the  presence  of  his  tiny  and 
captivating  Helena  van  der  Schalcke,”  No.  573,  one  of 
the  gems  of  the  Cabinet  pieces  (see  opposite  page  290), 
and  his  companion  pictures  of  a man  and  his  wife,  each 
standing  by  a piece  of  red  furniture — I think  Nos.  574 
and  575.  The  execution  of  the  woman’s  muslin  collar 
is  among  the  most  dexterous  things  in  Dutch  art. 

From  the  Ryks  Museum  it  is  but  a little  way  (past  the 
model  Dutch  garden)  to  the  Stadelijks  Museum,  where 
modern  painting  may  be  studied — Israels  and  Bosboom, 
Mesdag  and  James  Maris,  Breitner  and  Jan  van  Beers, 
Blommers  and  Weis^enbruph. 

There  is  also  one  room  dedicated  to  paintings  of  the 
Barbizon  school,  and  of  this  I would  advise  instant  search. 
I rested  my  eyes  here  for  an  hour.  A vast  scene  of  cattle 
by  Troyon  (who,  such  is  the  poverty  of  the  Dutch  alphabet, 
comes  out  monstrously  upon  the  frame  as  Troijon) ; a 


DUTCH  ROMANTICS 


181 


mysterious  valley  of  trees  by  Corot ; a wave  by  Courbet ; 
a mere  at  evening  by  Daubigny — these  are  like  cool  firm 
hands  upon  one’s  forehead. 

The  statement 

Nothing  graceful,  wise,  or  sainted, — 

That  is  how  the  Dutchman  painted, 

is  so  sweeping  as  to  be  untrue..  Indeed  it  is  wholly  absurd. 
The  truth  simply  is  that  one  goes  to  Dutch  art  for  the 
celebration  of  fact  without  mystery  or  magic.  In  other 
words,  Dutch  painting  is  painting  without  poetry ; and  it 
is  this  absence  of  poetry  which  makes  the  romantic  French- 
men appear  to  be  such  exotics  when  one  finds  them  in 
Holland,  and  why  it  is  so  pleasant  in  Holland  now  and 
then  to  taste  their  quality,  as  one  may  at  the  Stadolijks 
Museum  and  in  the  Mesdag  Collection  at  The  Hague. 

We  must  not  forget,  however,  that  under  the  French 
influence  certain  modern  Dutch  painters  have  been  quickened 
to  celebrate  the  fact  with  poetry.  In  a little  room  adjoin- 
ing the  great  French  room  at  the  Stadelijks  Museum  will 
be  found  some  perfect  things  by  living  or  very  recent 
artists  for^  whom  Corot  did  not  work  in  vain : a mere  by 
James  Maris,  with  a man  in  a blue  coat  sitting  in  a boat ; 
a marsh  under  a white  sky  by  Matthew  Maris ; a village 
scene  by  the  same  exquisite  craftsman.  These  three  pictures, 
but  especially  the  last  two,  are  in  their  way  as  notable  and 
beautiful  as  anything  by  the  great  names  in  Dutch  art. 

On  the  ground  floor  of  the  Stadelijks  Museum  is  the 
series  of  rooms  named  after  the  Suasso  family  which  should 
on  no  account  be  missed,  but  of  which  no  notice  is  given 
by  the  Museum  authorities.  These  rooms  are  furnished 
exactly  as  they  would  have  been  by  the  best  Dutch  families, 
their  furniture  and  hangings  having  been  brought  from  old 
bouses  in  the  Keizersgracht  and  the  Heerengracht.  The 


182 


THE  SUASSO  ROOMS 


kitchen  is  one  of  the  prettiest  things  in  Holland^ — with  its 
shining  brass  and  copper,  its  delicate  and  dainty  tiles  and 
its  air  of  cheerful  brightness.  Some  of  the  carving  in  the 
other  rooms  is  superb  ; the  silver,  the  china,  the  clocks  are 
all  of  the  choicest.  The  custodian  has  a childlike  interest 
in  secret  drawers  and  unexpected  recesses,  which  he  exhibits 
with  a gusto  not  habitual  in  the  Dutch  cicerone.  For 
the  run  of  these  old  rooms  a guelder  is  asked  ; one  sees  the 
three  rooms  on  the  other  side  of  the  entrance  hall  for  twenty- 
five  cents,  the  church  and  museum  unit  of  Holland.  But 
they  were  uninteresting  beside  the  larger  suite.  They 
consist  of  an  old  Dutch  apothecary’s  shop  and  laboratory ; 
a madhouse  cell ; and  the  bedroom  of  a Dutch  lady  who 
has  just  presented  her  lord  with  an  infant.  We  see  the 
mother  in  bed,  a doctor  at  her  side,  and  in  the  foreground 
a nurse  holding  the  baby.  Except  that  the  costumes  and 
accessories  are  authentic  the  tableau  is  in  no  way  superior 
to  an  ordinary  waxwork. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  last  chapter  I said  that  the 
Keizersgracht  and  Heerengracht  do  not  divulge  their 
secrets ; they  present  an  impassive  and  inscrutable  front, 
grave  and  sombre,  often  black  as  night,  beyond  which  the 
foreigner  may  not  penetrate.  But  by  the  courtesy  of  the 
descendants  of  Rembrandt’s  friend  Jan  Six,  in  order  that 
pleasure  in  their  collection  of  the  old  masters  may  be 
shared.  No.  511  Heerengracht  is  shown  on  the  presentation 
of  a visiting  card  at  suitable  hours.  Here  may  be  seen 
two  more  of  the  rare  pictures  of  Vermeer  of  Delft — his 
famous  Milk  Woman  ” and  a Dutch  fa9ade  in  the  manner 
of  Peter  de  Hooch,  with  an  added  touch  of  grave  delicacy 
and  distinction.  Peter  de  Hooch  is  himself  represented  in 
this  little  gallery,  but  the  picture  is  in  bad  condition. 
There  is  also  an  interesting  and  uncharacteristically 


?pi 


REMBRANDT’S  WAGER 


183 


dramatic  Nicolas  Maes  called  “ The  Listener  But  the 
pride  of  the  house  is  the  little  group  of  portraits  by 
Rembrandt. 

It  was,  by  the  way,  at  Burgomaster  Six’s  house  at 
Elsbroek  that  Rembrandt’s  little  etching  called  Six’s 
Bridge”  was  executed.  Rembrandt  and  his  friend  had 
just  sat  down  to  dinner  when  it  was  discovered  that  there 
was  no  mustard.  On  a servant  being  sent  to  buy  or  borrow 
some,  Rembrandt  made  a bet  that  he  would  complete  an 
etching  of  the  bridge  before  the  man’s  return.  The  artist 
won. 

Another  little  private  collection,  which  has  now  become 
a regular  resort,  with  fixed  hours,  is  that  known  as  the 
Fodor  Museum,  at  No.  609  Keizersgracht ; but  I do  not 
recommend  a visit  unless  one  is  absolutely  a glutton  for 
paint. 


CHAPTER  XII 


AROUND  AMSTERDAM  : SOUTH  AND  SOUTH-EAST 

Dutch  railways — Amsterdam  as  a centre — Town  and  country — Milking 
time — Scotch  scenery  in  Holland — Hilversum — Laren — Anton  Mauve 
— Buckwheat  Sunday — Dress  in  Holland — Naarden’s  hour  of  agony 
— The  indomitable  Dutch — Through  Noord-Holland  again — Muider- 
berg — Muiden’s  Castle. 

HE  Dutch  have  several  things  to  learn  from  the 


English ; and  there  are  certain  lessons  which  we 
might  acquire  from  them.  To  them  we  might  impart  the 
uses  of  the  salt-spoon,  and  ask  in  return  the  secret  of 
punctuality  on  the  railways. 

The  Dutch  railways  are  admirable.  The  trains  come  in 
to  the  minute  and  go  out  to  the  minute.  The  officials  are 
intelligent  and  polite.  The  carriages  are  good.  Every 
station  has  its  waiting-room,  where  you  may  sit  and  read, 
and  drink  a cup  of  coffee  that  is  not  only  hot  and  fresh 
but  is  recognisably  the  product  of  the  berry.  It  is  impos- 
sible to  travel  in  the  wrong  train.  It  is  very  difficult  not 
to  get  out  at  the  right  station.  The  fares  are  very  reason- 
able. The  stationmasters  are  the  only  visible  and  tangible 
members  of  the  Dutch  aristocracy.  The  disposition  of  one’s 
luggage  is  very  simple  when  once  it  has  been  mastered. 
The  time  tables  are  models  of  clarity. 

The  only  blot  on  the  system  is  the  detestable  double 


AMSTERDAM  AS  A CENTRE 


185 


prevalent  on  the  Continent,  that  a platform  is  a vanity. 
It  is  a perpetual  wonder  to  me  that  some  of  the  wider 
Dutch  ever  succeed  in  climbing  into  their  trains  at  all ; and 
yet  after  accomplishing  one’s  own  ascent  one  discovers 
them  seated  there  comfortably  and  numerously  enough, 
showing  no  signs  of  the  struggle. 

Travellers  who  find  the  Dutch  tendency  to  closed  windows 
a trial  beyond  endurance  may  be  interested  to  know 
that  it  is  law  in  Holland  that  if  any  passenger  wish  it  the 
window  on  the  lee  side  may  be  open.  With  the  knowledge 
of  this  enactment  all  difficulty  should  be  over — provided 
that  one  has  sufficient  strength  of  purpose  (and  acquaintance 
with  the  Dutch  language)  to  enforce  it. 

All  this  preamble  concerning  railways  is  by  way  of 
introduction  to  the  statement  (hinted  at  in  the  first 
chapter)  that  if  the  traveller  in  Holland  likes,  he  can 
see  a great  part  of  the  country  by  staying  at  Amsterdam 
— making  the  city  his  headquarters,  and  every  day  journey- 
ing here  and  there  and  back  again  by  train  or  canal. 

A few  little  neighbouring  towns  it  is  practically  necessary 
to  visit  from  Amsterdam ; and  for  the  most  part,  I take  it, 
Leyden  and  Haarlem  are  made  the  object  of  excursions 
either  from  Amsterdam  or  The  Hague,  rather  than  places 
of  sojoum,  although  both  have  excellent  quiet  inns  much 
..loi  e to  my  taste  than  anything  in  the  largest  city.  Indeea 
I found  Amsterdam’s  hotels  exceedingly  unsatisfactorv ; 
so  much  so  that  the  next  time  I go,  when  the  electric 
railway  to  Haarlem  is  lopen,  I am  proposing  to  invert 
completely  the  usual  process,  and,  staying  at  Haarlem, 
study  Amsterdam  from  there. 

For  the  time  being,  however,  we  must  consider  ourselves 
at  Amsterdam,  branching  out  north  or  south,  east  or  west, 
every  morning. 


186 


MILKING  TIME 


A very  intei-esting  excursion  may  be  made  to  Hilversum, 
returning  by  the  steam-tram  through  Laren,  Naarden  and 
Muiden.  The  rail  runs  at  first  through  flat  and  very 
verdant  meadows,  where  thousands  of  cows  that  supply 
Amsterdam  with  milk  are  grazing ; and  one  notices  again 
the  suddenness  with  which  the  Dutch  city  ends  and  the 
Dutch  country  begins.  Our  English  towns  have  straggling 
outposts : new  houses,  scaffold  poles,  cottages,  allotments, 
all  break  the  transition  from  city  to  country ; the  urban 
gives  place  to  suburban,  and  suburban  to  rural,  gradually, 
every  inch  being  contested.  But  the  Dutch  towns — 
even  the  great  cities — end  suddenly ; the  country  begins 
suddenly. 

In  England  for  the  most  part  the  cow  comes  to  the 
milker  ; but  in  Holland  the  milker  goes  to  the  cow.  His 
first  duty  is  to  bind  the  animal’s  hind  legs  together,  and 
then  he  sets  his  stool  at  his  side  and  begins.  Anton 
Mauve  has  often  painted  the  scene — so  often  that  at 
milking  time  one  looks  from  the  carriage  windows  at  a 
very  gallery  of  Mauves.  I noticed  this  particularly  on  an 
afternoon  journey  from  Amsterdam  to  Hilversum,  between 
the  city  and  Weesp,  where  the  meadows  (cricket  grounds 
manquh)  are  flat  as  billiard  tables. 

The  train  later  runs  between  great  meres,  some  day 
perhaps  to  be  reclaimed,  and  then  dashes  into  country  that 
resembles  very  closely  our  Government  land  about  Woking 
and  Bisley — the  first  sand  and  firs  that  we  have  seen  in 
Holland.  It  has  an  odd  and  unexpected  appearance  ; but 
as  a matter  of  fact  hundreds  of  square  milea  of  Holland 
in  the  south  and  east  have  this  character;  while  there 
are  stretches  of  Dutch  heather  in  which  one  can  feel  in 
Scotland. 

All  about  Naarden  and  Hilversum  are  sanatoria,  country- 


MILKING  TIM1-: 


ANTON  MAUVE 


> ■ • 


ANTON  MAUVE 


187 


seats  and  pleasure  grounds,  the  softening  effect  of  the  pines 
upon  the  strong  air  of  the  Zuyder  Zee  being  very  bene- 
ficial. Many  of  the  heights  have  towers  or  pavilions,  some 
of  which  move  the  author  of  Through  Noord-Holland  to 
ecstasies.  As  thus,  of  the  Larenberg  ; The  most  charm- 
ing is  the  tower,  where  one  can  enjoy  a perspective  that 
only  rarely  presents  itself.  We  can  see  here  the  towers  of 
Nijkerk,  Harderwijk,  Utrecht,  Amersfoort,  Bunschoten, 
Amsterdam  and  many  others.”  And  again,  of  a wood  at 
Heideheuvel : The  perspective  beauty  here  formed  cannot 

be  said  in  words  ”. 

Hilv.ersum  is  the  Chislehurst  of  Holland — a discreet  and 
wealthy  suburb,  where  business  men  have  their  villas  amid 
the  trees.  It  is  a pleasant  spot,  excellent  from  which  to 
explore. 

The  author  of  Through  Noord-Holland  thus  describes 
Laren,  which  lies  a few  miles  from  Hilversum  and  is 
reached  by  tram : Surrounded  by  arable  land  and  hilly 

heathery  it  is  richly  provided  with  picturesque  spots ; 
country-seats,  villas,  ordinary  houses  and  farms  are  follow- 
ing one  another.  For  those  who  are  searching  for  rest 
and  calmness  is  this  village  very  recommendable.”  But  to 
say  only  that  is  to  omit  Laren’s  principal  claim  to  distinc- 
tion— its  fame  as  the  home  of  Anton  Mauve. 

No  great  painter  of  nature  probably  ever  adapted  less 
than  Mauve.  His  pictures,  oils  and  water-colours  alike, 
are  the  real  thing,  very  true,  very  beautiful,  low-toned, 
always  with  a touch  of  wistfulness  and  melancholy.  He 
found  his  subjects  everywhere,  and  justified  them  by  the 
sympathy  and  truth  of  his  exquisite  modest  art. 

Chiefly  he  painted  peasants  and  cows.  What  a spot  of 
red  was  to  Corot,  the  blue  linen  jacket  of  the  Dutch  peasant 
was  to  his  disciple.  I never  hear  the  name  of  Mauve  with- 


188 


THE  BLUE  JACKET 


out  instantly  seeing  a black  and  white  cow  and  a boy  in  a 
blue  jacket  amid  Holland’s  evening  green. 

At  Laren  Mauve’s  fame  is  kept  sweet  by  a little  colony 
of  artists,  who  like  to  draw  their  inspiration  where  the 
great  painter  drew  his. 

North  of  Laren,  on  the  sea  coast,  is  the  fishing  village  of 
Huizen,  where  the  women  have  a neat  but  very  sedate 
costume.  They  wear  white  caps  with  curved  sides  that 
add  grace  to  a pretty  cheek.  Having,  however,  the  odd 
fancy  that  a flat  chest  is  more  desirable  than  a rounded 
one,  they  compress  their  busts  into  narrow  compass,  striving 
as  far  as  possible  to  preserve  vertical  lines.  At  the  waist 
a plethora  of  petticoats  begins,  spreading  the  skirts  to  in- 
ordinate width  and  emphasising  the  meagreness  above. 

The  sombre  attire  of  the  Huizen  women  is  a contrast  to 
most  of  the  traditional  costumes  of  Holland,  which  are 
charming,  full  of  gay  colour  and  happy  design.  The  art 
of  dress  seems  otherwise  to  be  dead  in  Holland  to-day.  In 
the  towns  the  ordinary  conventional  dress  is  dull ; and  in 
the  country  it  is  without  any  charm.  Holland  as  a whole, 
omitting  the  costumes,  cannot  be  said  to  have  any  more 
knowledge  of  clothes  than  we  have.  It  is  only  by  the  blue 
linen  jackets  of  the  men  in  the  fields  that  the  situation  is 
saved  and  the  Dutch  are  proved  our  superiors.  How  cool 
and  grateful  to  the  eyes  this  blue  jacket  can  be  all  admirers 
of  Mauve’s  pictures  know. 

Naarden  and  Muiden  are  curiously  mediaeval.  The  steam- 
tram  has  been  rushing  along  for  some  miles,  past  beer 
gardens  and  villas,  when  suddenly  it  slows  to  walking  pace 
as  we  twist  in  and  out  over  the  bridges  of  a moat,  and 
creeping  through  the  tunnel  of  a rampart  are  in  the 
narrow  streets  of  a fortified  town.  Both  Naarden  and 
Muiden  are  surrounded  by  moats  and  fortifications, 


NAARDEN 


189 


Naarden’s  crowning  hour  of  agony  was  in  1572,  since  it 
had  the  misfortune  to  stand  in  the  path  of  Don  Frederic 
on  his  way  from  Zutphen,  where  not  a citizen  had  been  left 
alive,  to  Amsterdam.  The  story  of  the  surrender  of  the 
city  to  Don  Romero  under  the  pledge  that  life  and  property 
should  be  respected,  and  of  the  dastardly  and  fiendish  dis- 
regard of  this  pledge  by  the  Spaniards,  is  the  most  ghastly 
in  the  whole  war.  From  Motley  I take  the  account  of  the 
tragedy  : — 

“ On  the  22nd  of  November  a company  of  one  hundred 
troopers  was  sent  to  the  city  gates  to  demand  its  surrender. 
The  small  garrison  which  had  been  left  by  the  Prince  was 
not  disposed  to  resist,  but  the  spirit  of  the  burghers  was 
stouter  than  their  walls.  They  answered  the  summons  by 
a declaration  that  they  had  thus  far  held  the  city  for  the 
King  and  the  Prince  of  Orange,  and,  with  God’s  help,  would 
continue  so  to  do.  As  the  horsemen  departed  with  this 
reply,  a lunatic,  called  Adrian  Krankhoeft,  mounted  the 
ramparts,  and  discharged  a culverine  among  them.  No 
man  was  injured,  but  the  words  of  defiance,  and  the  shot 
fired  by  a madman^s  hand,  were  destined  to  be  fearfully 
answered. 

‘‘Meanwhile,  the  inhabitants  of  the  place,  which  was  at 
best  far  from  strong,  and  ill  provided  with  arms,  ammuni- 
tion, or  soldiers,  despatched  importunate  messages  to  Sonoy, 
and  to  other  patriot  generals  nearest  to  them,  soliciting 
< reinforcements.  Their  messengers  came  back  almost  empty- 
handed.  They  brought  a little  powder  and  a great  many 
promises,  but  not  a single  man-at-arms,  not  a ducat,  not  a 
piece  of  artillery.  The  most  influential  commanders,  more- 
over, advised  an  honourable  capitulation,  if  it  were  still 
possible. 

“ Thus  baffled,  the  burghers  of  the  little  city  found  their 


190 


SUSPICIONS 


proud  position  quite  untenable.  They  accordingly,  on  the 
1st  of  December,  despatched  the  burgomaster  and  a senator 
to  Amersfoort,  to  make  terms,  if  possible,  with  Don 
Frederic.  When  these  envoys  reached  the  place,  they  were 
refused  admission  to  the  general’s  presence.  The  army 
had  already  been  ordered  to  move  forward  to  Naarden,  and 
they  were  directed  to  accompany  the  advance  guard,  and 
to  expect  their  reply  at  the  gates  of  their  own  city.  This 
command  was  sufficently  ominous.  The  impression  which 
it  made  upon  them  was  confirmed  by  the  warning  voices 
of  their  friends  in  Amersfoort,  who  entreated  them  not  to 
return  to  Naarden.  The  advice  was  not  lost  upon  one 
of  the  two  envoys.  After  they  had  advanced  a little  dis- 
tance on  their  journey,  the  burgomaster,  Laurentszoon,  slid 
privately  out  of  the  sledge  in  which  they  were  travelling, 
leaving  his  cloak  behind  him.  ‘Adieu  ; I think  I will  not 
venture  back  to  Naarden  at  present,^  said  he  calmly,  as  he 
abandoned  his  companion  to  his  fate.  The  other,  who 
could  not  so  easily  desert  his  children,  his  wife,  and  his 
fellow-citizens  in  the  hour  of  danger,  went  forward  as  calmly 
to  share  in  their  impending  doom. 

“ The  army  reached  Bussum,  half  a league  distant  from 
Naarden,  in  the  evening.  Here  Don  Frederic  established 
his  headquarters,  and  proceeded  to  invest  the  city.  Senator 
Gerrit  was  then  directed  to  return  to  Naarden,  and  to  bring 
out  a more  numerous  deputation  on  the  following  morn- 
ing, duly  empowered  to  surrender  the  place.  The  envoy 
accordingly  returned  next  day,  accompanied  by  Lambert 
Hortensius,  rector  of  a Latin  academy,  together  with  four 
other  citizens.  Before  this  deputation  had  reached  Bussum, 
they  were  met  by  Julian  Romero,  who  informed  them  that 
he  was  commissioned  to  treat  with  them  on  the  part  of  Don 
Frederic.  He  demanded  the  keys  of  the  city,  and  gave  the 


PATERNAL  ADVICE 

GERARD  TERBURG 
From  the  picttcre  in  the  Ryks  Miiseum 


{' 


TREACHERY 


191 


deputation  a solemn  pledge  that  the  lives  and  property  of 
all  the  inhabitants  should  be  sacredly  respected.  To  attest 
this  assurance,  Don  Julian  gave  his  hand  three  several  times 
to  Lambert  Hortensius.  A soldier’s  word  thus  plighted, 
the  commissioners,  without  exchanging  any  written  docu- 
ments, surrendered  the  keys,  and  immediately  afterwards 
accompanied  Romero  into  the  city,  who  was  soon  followed 
by  five  or  six  hundred  musketeers. 

“To  give  these  guests  an  hospitable  reception,  all  the 
housewives  of  the  city  at  once  set  about  preparations  for 
a sumptuous  feast,  to  which  the  Spaniards  did  ample 
justice,  while  the  colonel  and  his  officers  were  entertained 
by  Senator  Gerrit  at  his  own  house.  As  soon  as  this  con- 
viviality had  come  to  an  end,  Romero,  accompanied  by  his 
host,  walked  into  the  square.  The  great  bell  had  been 
meantime  ringing,  and  the  citizens  had  been  summoned  to 
assemble  in  the  Gast  Huis  Church,  then  used  as  a town 
hall.  In  the  course  of  a few  minutes  500  had  entered  the 
building,  and  stood  quietly  awaiting  whatever  measures 
might  be  offered  for  their  deliberation.  Suddenly  a priest, 
who  had  been  pacing  to  and  fro  before  the  church  door, 
entered  the  building  and  bade  them  all  prepare  for  death ; 
but  the  announcement,  the  preparation,  and  the  death, 
were  simultaneous.  The  door  was  flung  open,  and  a band 
of  armed  Spaniards  rushed  across  the  sacred  threshold. 
They  fired  a single  volley  upon  the  defenceless  herd,  and 
then  sprang  in  upon  them  with  sword  and  dagger.  A yell 
of  despair  arose  as  the  miserable  victims  saw  how  hopelessly 
they  were  engaged,  and  beheld  the  ferocious  faces  of  their 
butchers.  The  carnage  within  that  narrow  space  was  com- 
pact and  rapid.  Within  a few  minutes  all  were  despatched, 
and  among  them  Senator  Gerrit,  from  whose  table  the 
Spanish  commander  had  but  just  risen.  The  church  was 


192 


HORTENSIUS 


then  set  on  fire,  and  the  dead  and  dying  were  consumed 
to  ashes  together. 

Inflamed  but  not  satiated,  the  Spaniards  then  rushed 
into  the  streets,  thirsty  for  fresh  horrors.  The  houses  were 
all  rifled  of  their  contents,  and  men  were  forced  to  carry 
the  booty  to  the  camp,  who  were  then  struck  dead  as  their 
reward.  The  town  was  then  fired  in  every  direction,  that 
the  skulking  citizens  might  be  forced  from  their  hiding- 
places.  As  fast  as  they  came  forth  they  were  put  to  death  by 
their  impatient  foes.  Some  were  pierced  with  rapiers,  some 
were  chopped  to  pieces  with  axes,  some  were  surrounded 
in  the  blazing  streets  by  troops  of  laughing  soldiers,  intoxi- 
cated, not  with  wine  but  with  blood,  who  tossed  them  to 
and  fro  with  their  lances,  and  derived  a wild  amusement 
from  their  dying  agonies.  Those  who  attempted  resistance 
were  crimped  alive  like  fishes,  and  left  to  gasp  themselves 
to  death  in  lingering  torture.  The  soldiers  becoming  more 
and  more  insane,  as  the  foul  work  went  on,  opened  the 
veins  of  some  of  their  victims,  and  drank  their  blood  as  if 
it  were  wine.  Some  of  the  burghers  were  for  a time  spared, 
that  they  might  witness  the  violation  of  their  wives  and 
daughters,  and  were  then  butchered  in  company  with  these 
still  more  unfortunate  victims.  Miracles  of  brutality  were 
accomplished.  Neither  church  nor  hearth  was  sacred.  Men 
were  slain,  women  outraged  at  the  altars,  in  the  streets,  in 
their  blazing  homes.  The  life  of  Lambert  Hortensius  was 
spared  out  of  regard  to  his  learning  and  genius,  but  he 
hardly  could  thank  his  foes  for  the  boon,  for  they  struck 
his  only  son  dead,  and  tore  his  heart  out  before  his  father’s 
eyes.  Hardly  any  man  or  woman  survived,  except  by 
accident.  A body  of  some  hundred  burghers  made  their 
escape  across  the  snow  into  the  open  country.  They  were, 
however,  overtaken,  stripped  stark  naked,  and  hung  upon 


MASSACRE 


193 


the  trees  by  the  feet,  to  freeze,  or  to  perish  by  a more 
lingering  death.  Most  of  them  soon  died,  but  twenty,  who 
happened  to  be  wealthy,  succeeded,  after  enduring  much 
torture,  in  purchasing  their  lives  of  their  inhuman  perse- 
cutors. The  principal  burgomaster,  Heinrich  Lamberts - 
zoon,  was  less  fortunate.  Known  to  be  affluent,  he  was 
tortured  by  exposing  the  soles  of  his  feet  to  a fire  until 
they  were  almost  consumed.  On  promise  that  his  life 
should  be  spared  he  then  agreed  to  pay  a heavy  ransom  ; 
but  hardly  had  he  furnished  the  stipulated  sum  when,  by 
express  order  of  Don  Frederic  himself,  he  was  hanged  in 
his  own  doorway,  and  his  dissevered  limbs  afterwards  nailed 
to  the  gates  of  the  city. 

Nearly  all  the  inhabitants  of  Naarden,  soldiers  and 
citizens,  were  thus  destroyed ; and  now  Don  Frederic  issued 
peremptory  orders  that  no  one,  on  pain  of  death,  should 
give  lodging  or  food  to  any  fugitive.  He  likewise  forbade 
to  the  dead  all  that  could  now  be  forbidden  them — a grave. 
Three  weeks  long  did  these  unburied  bodies  pollute  the 
streets,  nor  could  the  few  wretched  women  who  still  cowered 
within  such  houses  as  had  escaped  the  flames  ever  move 
from  their  lurking-places  without  treading  upon  the  fester- 
ing remains  of  what  had  been  their  husbands,  their  fathers, 
or  their  brethren.  Such  was  the  express  command  of  him 
whom  the  flatterers  called  the  ^ most  divine  genius  ever 
known’.  Shortly  afterwards  came  an  order  to  dismantle 
the  fortifications,  which  had  certainly  proved  sufficiently 
feeble  in  the  hour  of  need,  and  to  raze  what  was  left  of 
the  city  from  the  surface  of  the  earth.  The  work  was  faith- 
fully accomplished,  and  for  a long  time  Naarden  ceased  to 
exist.” 

The  Naarden  of  to-day  sprang  from  the  ruins.  Mendoza’s 
comment  upon  the  siege  ran  thus : The  sack  of  Naarden 

13 


194 


THE  DUTCH  GUIDE  AGAIN 


was  a chastisement  which  must  be  believed  to  have  taken 
place  by  express  permission  of  a Divine  Providence ; a 
punishment  for  having  been  the  first  of  the  Holland  towns 
in  which  heresy  built  its  nest,  whence  it  has  taken  flight  to 
all  the  neighbouring  cities  None  the  less,  “ the  hearts  of 
the  Hollanders,”  says  Motley,  ‘‘were  rather  steeled  to  re- 
sistance than  awed  into  submission  by  the  fate  of  Naarden  ” ; 
as  Don  Frederic  found  when  he  passed  on  to  besiege  Haarlem 
and  later  Alkmaar. 

To  Muiderburg,  between  Naarden  and  Muiden,  I have 
not  been,  and  therefore  with  the  more  readiness  quote  my 
indispensable  author : — 

In  summer  is  Muiderberg  by  its  situation  at  the  Zuiderzee  a favourite 
little  spot  and  very  recommendable  for  nervous  people.  The  number  of 
those  who  sought  cure  and  found  it  here  is  enormous.  It  is  the  vacation- 
place  by  excellence.  There  is  a church  with  square  tower  and  organ. 
About  the  tower,  the  spire  of  which  is  failing,  various  opinions  go  round 
how  this  occured,  by  war,  by  shooting  or  storm. 

The  beautiful  beech-grove  in  the  center  of  the  village,  where  a lot  of 
forest-giants  are  rising  in  the  sky  in  severe  rows,  is  a favorite  place,  in 
the  middle  of  which  is  a hill  with  fine  pond. 

A couple  of  years  ago  Geertruida  Carelsen  wrote  in  her  Berlin  letters 
that  Muiderberg  perhaps  is  the  only  bathing-place  where  sea  and  wood 
are  united.  There  are  three  well-known  graveyards. 

Of  Muiden’s  very  picturesque  moated  castle — the  ideal' 
castle  of  a romance — Peter  Cornellissen  Hooft,  the  poet 
and  historian,  was  once  custodian.  It  was  built  in  the 
thirteenth  century  and  restored  by  Florence  V.,  who  was 
subsequently  incarcerated  there.  As  the  Noord-Holland 
guide-book  sardonically  remarks,  “He  will  never  have 
thought  that  he  built  his  own  prison  hj  it  ”, 


CHAPTER  XIII 


AROUND  AMSTERDAM  : NORTH 


To  Marken — An  opera-houffe  island — Cultivated  and  profitable  simpli- 
city— Broek-in-Waterland — Cow-damp — The  two  doors — Ginger- 
bread and  love — Dead  cities — Monnickendam — The  overturned 
camera — Dutch  phlegm — Brabant  the  quarrelsome — Edam — Hol- 
land’s great  churches — Edam’s  roll  of  honour — A beard  of  note — A 
Dutch  Daniel  Lambert — A virgin  colossus — A ship-owner  indeed 
— The  mermaid — Volendam — Taciturnity  and  tobacco — Purmerend 
— The  land  of  windmills — Zaandam — Green  paint  at  its  highest 
power — A riverside  inn — Peter  the  Great. 


An  excursion  which  every  one  will  say  is  indispensable 
takes  one  to  Marken  (pronounced  Marriker) ; but  I 
have  my  doubts.  The  island  may  be  reached  from  Amster- 
dam either  by  boat,  going  by  way  of  canal  and  returning 
by  sea,  or  one  may  take  the  steam-tram  to  Monnickendam 
or  Edam,  and  then  fall  into  the  hands  of  a Marken  mariner. 
To  escape  his,  invitations  to  sail  thither  is  a piece  of  good 
fortune  that  few  visitors  succeed  in  achieving. 

Marken  in  winter  wears  perhaps  a genuine  air ; in  the 
season  of  tourists  it  has  too  much  the  suggestion  of  opera 
houffe.  The  men’s  costume  is  comic  beyond  reason;  the 
inhabitants  are  picturesque  of  set  design ; the  old  women 
at  their  doorways  are  too  consciously  the  owners  of  quaint 
habitations,  glimpses  of  which  catch  the  eye  by  well- 
studied  accident.  I must  confess  to  being  glad  to  leave  : 
for  either  one  was  intruding  upon  a simple  folk  entirely 

(195) 


196 


«MARRIKER” 


surrounded  by  water ; or  the  simple  folk,  knowing  human 
nature,  had  made  itself  up  and  sent  out  its  importunate 
young  from  strictly  mercenary  motives.  In  either  case 
Marken  is  no  place  for  a sensitive  traveller.  The  theory 
that  the  Marken  people  are  savages  is  certainly  a wrong  one ; 
they  have  carried  certain  of  the  privileges  of  civilisation  very 
far  and  can  take  care  of  themselves  with  unusual  cleverness. 
Moreover,  no  savage  would  cover  his  legs  with  such  garments 
as  the  men  adhere  to. 

What  is  wrong  with  Marken  is  that  for  the  most  part  it 
subsists  on  sight-seers,  which  is  bad ; and  it  too  generally 
suggests  that  a stage-manager,  employed  by  a huge  Trust, 
is  somewhere  in  the  background.  It  cannot  be  well  with  a 
community  that  encourages  its  children  to  beg  of  visitors. 

The  women,  however,  look  sensible : fine  upstanding 
creatures  with  a long  curl  of  yellow  hair  on  each  side  of 
their  faces.  One  meets  them  now  and  then  in  Amsterdam 
streets,  by  no  means  dismayed  by  the  traffic  and  bustle. 
Their  head-dresses  are  striking  and  gay,  and  the  front  of 
their  bodices  is  elaborately  embroidered,  the  prevailing 
colours  being  red  and  pink.  Bright  hues  are  also  very 
popular  within  doors  on  this  island,  perhaps  by  way  of 
counteracting  the  external  monotony,  the  Marken  walls 
being  washed  with  yellow  and  hung  with  Delft  plates,  while 
the  furniture  and  hangings  all  have  a cheerful  gaiety. 

The  island  is  flat  save  for  the  mounds  on  which  its 
villages  are  built,  'each  house  standing  on  poles  to  allow 
the  frequent  inundations  of  the  winter  free  way.  If  one 
has  the  time  and  money  it  is  certainly  better  to  visit 
Marken  in  a fishing-boat  than  in  the  steamer — provided 
that  one  can  trust  oneself  to  navigators  masquerading  in 
such  bloomers. 

The  steamers  from  Amsterdam  pause  for  a while  at 


BROEK 


197 


Broek  and  Monnickendam.  Broek-in-Waterland,  to  give 
it  its  full  title,  is  one  of  the  quaintest  of  Dutch  villages. 
But  unfortunately  Broek  also  has  become  to  some  extent  a 
professional  sight Its  cleanliness,  however,  for  which 
it  is  famous,  is  not  an  artificial  effect  attained  to  impress 
visitors,  but  a genuine  enough  characteristic.  The  houses 
are  gained  by  little  bridges  which,  with  various  other 
idiosyncrasies,  help  to  make  Broek  a delight  to  children. 
If  a company  of  children  were  to  be  allowed  to  manage  a 
small  republic  entirely  alone,  the  whimsical  millionaire  who 
fathered  the  project  might  do  wors^  than  buy  up  this 
village  for  the  experiment. 

In  the  model  dairy  farm  of  Broek,  through  which  visitors 
file  during  the  time  allowed  by  the  steam-boat^s  captain, 
things  happen  as  they  should  : the  cows’  tails  are  tied  to 
the  roof,  and  all  is  spick  and  span.  The  author  of  Through 
Noord-Holland  tells  us  that  among  the  dairy’s  illustrious 
visitors  was  an  Italian  duchess  from  Livorno  who  ordered 
cheese  for  herself,  for  the  Princess  Borghese  and  for  the 
Duke  of  Ceri.  Everything  in  the  farm,  he  adds, 
glimmering  and  glittering  ”. 

One  of  the  phenomena  of  Broek  is  thus  explained  by  the 
same  ingenious  author:  ^^By  beholding  the  dark-tinted 
columns  attentively  one  sees  something  dull  here  and  there. 
In  the  year  1825,  when  the  great  flood  inundated  whole 
Broek,  men  as  well  as  cattle  flied  into  the  church,  which 
lies  so  much  higher  and  remained  quite  free  of  water.  By 
the  exhalations  of  the  cows,  the  cow-damp,  has  the  wood 
been  blemished  and  made  dull  at  many  places,  chamois 
nor  polish  could  help,  the  dullness  remained.”  The  church 
has  beauties  to  set  against  the  phenomenon  of  cow-damp, 
and  among  them  a very  elaborate  carved  pulpit  in  various 
precious  woods,  and  some  fine  lamps. 


198 


LOVERS 


Ireland  tells  us  that  the  front  doors  of  many  of  Broek’s 
houses  are  opened  only  twice  in  them  owners’  lives — when 
they  many  and  when  they  die.  For  the  rest  the  back 
door  must  serve.  The  custom  is  not  confined  to  Broek, 
but  is  found  all  over  North  Holland.  These  ceremonial 
front  doors  are  often  very  ornate.  It  was  also  at  Broek 
that  Ireland  picked  up  his  information  as  to  the  best 
means  of  winning  the  Dutch  heart.  ^^Laughable  as  it 
may  seem,  a safe  expedient  to  insure  the  affections  of  the 
lower  class  of  these  lasses,  is  to  arm  yourself  well  with 
gingerbread.  The  first  question  the  lover  is  asked  after 
knocking  at  the  door,  when  the  parents  are'  supposed  to  be 
in  bed,  is,  ^ Have  you  any  gingerbread  ? ’ If  he  replies  in 
the  affirmative,  he  finds  little  difficulty  in  gaining  admis- 
sion. A second  visit  ensures  his  success,  and  the  lady  yields.” 

I can  add  a little  to  this.  When  a young  man  thinks  of 
courting  he  firet  speaks  to  the  parents,  and  if  they  are  will- 
ing to  encoui’age  him  he  is  asked  to  spend  the  evening  with 
their  daughter.  They  then  discreetly  retire  to  bed  and  leave 
the  world  to  him.  Under  his  arm  is  a large  cake,  not 
necessarily  of  gingerbread,  and  this  he  deposits  on  the 
table,  with  or  without  words.  If  he  is  acceptable  in  the 
girl’s  eyes  she  at  once  puts  some  more  peat  on  the  fire.  He 
then  knows  that  all  is  well  with  him : the  cake  is  cut, 
and  Romance  is  king.  But  if  the  fire  is  not  replenished 
he  must  gather  up  his  cake  and  return  to  his  home.  A 
very  favourite  Dutch  picture  represents  The  Cutting  of 
the  Cake  ”.  I have  heard  that  the  Dutch  wife  takes  her 
husband’s  left  arm ; the  Dutch  fiancee  her  lover’s  right. 

Monnickendam,  on  the  shores  of  the  Zuyder  Zee,  is 
now  a desolate  sleepy  spot ; once  it  was  one  of  the  great 
towns  of  Holland,  at  the  time  when  The  Hague  was  a 
village.  I say  Zuyder  Zee,  but  strictly  speaking  it  is  on 


THE  OVERTURNED  CAMERA 


199 


the  Gouwzee,  the  name  of  the  straits  between  Monnick- 
endam  and  Marken.  It  is  here,  in  winter,  when  the  ice 
holds,  that  a fair  is  held,  to  which  come  all  Amsterdam  on 
skates,  to  eat  poffertjes  and  wafelen, 

Monnickendam  aflFords  our  first  sight  of  what  are  called 
very  misleadingly  the  ^^Dead  Cities  of  the  Zuyder  Zee,” 
meaning  merely  towns  which  once  were  larger  and  busier. 
Monnickendam  was  sufficiently  important  to  fit  out  a fleet 
against  the  Spanish  in  1573,  under  Cornelius  Dirckszoon 
(whose  tomb  we  saw  at  Delft)  and  capture  Bossu  in  the 
battle  of  Hoorn. 

To-day  Monnickendam  suggests  nothing  so  little  as  a 
naval  engagement.  People  live  there,  it  is  true,  but  one 
sees  very  few  of  them.  Only  in  an  old  English  market 
town  on  a hot  day — such  a town  as  Petworth,  for  example, 
in  Sussex — do  you  get  such  desertion  and  quiet  and  im- 
perturbability. Monnickendam  has,  however,  a treasure 
that  few  English  towns  can  boast — its  charming  little 
stadhuis  tower,  one  of  the  prettiest  in  Holland,  with  a 
happy  peal  of  bells,  and  mechanical  horses  in  action  once 
an  hour ; while  the  tram  line  running  right  down  the  main 
street  periodically  awakens  the  populace. 

When  last  I visited  Monnickendam  it  was  by  steam-tram  ; 
and  at  a little  half-way  station,  where  it  is  necessary  to 
wait  for  another  tram,  our  engine  driver,  stoker  and  guard 
were  elaborately  photographed  by  an  artist  who  seemed  to 
be  there  for  no  other  purpose.  He  placed  his  tripod  on 
the  platform ; grouped  the  officials ; gave  them — and  inci- 
dentally a score  of  heads  protruding  from  the  carriages — 
a sufficient  exposure,  and  was  preparing  another  plate  when 
an  incoming  tram  dashed  up  so  unexpectedly  as  to  cause 
him  to  jump,  and,  in  jumping,  to  overturn  his  tripod  and 
precipitate  the  camera  under  the  carriage  wheels.  Now 


200 


EDAM 


here  was  a tragedy  worthy  of  serious  treatment.  A French- 
man would  have  danced  with  rage ; an  Englishman  would 
have  wanted  to  know  whose  fault  it  was  and  have  threat- 
ened reprisals.  But  the  Dutchman  merely  looked  a little 
pained,  a little  surprised,  and  in  a minute  or  two  was  pre- 
paring a friendly  group  of  the  officials  of  the  tram  which 
had  caused  the  accident.  I do  not  put  the  incident  for- 
ward as  typical ; but  certainly  one  may  travel  far  in  Hol- 
land without  seeing  exhibitions  of  temper.  I mentioned 
the  nation’s  equability  to  the  young  Dutchman  in  the  canal 
boat  between  Rotterdam  and  Delft.  Ah ! ” he  said, 
you  should  go  to  Brabant.  They  fight  enough  there  ! ” 
I did  go  to  Brabant,  but  I saw  no  anger  or  quarrelsome- 
ness ; yet  I suppose  he  had  his  reasons. 

The  steam-tram  to  Monnickendam  runs  on  to  Edam, 
whence  one  may  command  both  Volendam  and  Purmerend. 
Edam  is  famous  for  its  cheese,  but  the  traveller  in  Holland 
as  a rule  reserves  for  Alkmaar  cheese  market  his  interest  in 
this  industry  ; and  we  will  do  the  same.  Broadly  speaking 
Edam  sends  forth  the  red  cheeses,  Alkmaar  the  yellow ; but 
no  hard  and  fast  line  can  be  drawn.  Were  it  not  for  its 
cheese  market  Edam  would  be  as  “ dead  ’’  as  Monnicken- 
dam, but  cheese  saves  it.  It  was  once  a power  and  the 
water-gate  of  Amsterdam,  at  a time  when  the  only  way  to 
the  Dutch  capital  was  by  the  Zuyder  Zee  and  the  Y. 
Edam  is  at  the  mouth  of  the  Y,  its  name  really  being 
Ydam.  The  size  of  its  Groote  Kerk  indicates  something 
of  this  past  importance,  for  it  is  immense  : a Gothic  build- 
ing of  the  fourteenth  century,  cold  and  drear  enough,  but 
a little  humanised  by  some  coloured  glass  from  Gouda,  often 
in  very  had  condition.  In  the  days  when  this  church  was 
built  Edam  had  twenty-five  thousand  inhabitants : now 
there  are  only  five  thousand. 


THREE  PERSONAGES 


201 


It  is  difficult  to  lose  the  feeling  of  disproportion  between 
the  size  of  the  Dutch  churches  and  that  of  the  villages 
and  congregations.  The  villages  are  so  small,  the  churches 
so  vast.  It  is  as  though  the  churches  were  built  to  com- 
pensate for  the  absence  of  hills.  From  any  one  spire  in 
Holland  one  must  be  able  to  see  almost  all  the  others. 

The  stained  glass  in  Edam’s  great  church  has  reference 
rather  to  Holland’s  temporal  prosperity  than  to  religion. 
More  interesting  is  the  room  over  the  southern  door,  which 
was  used  first  for  a prison,  and  later  for  a school,  the  library 
of  which  still  may  be  seen.  Edam  possesses  in  addition  to 
the  immense  church  of  St.  Nicholas  a little  church  of  the 
Virgin,  with  a spire  full  of  bells,  badly  out  of  the  per- 
pendicular. The  town  has  also  some  interesting  old  houses, 
one  or  two  of  great  beauty,  and  many  enriched  by  quaint 
bas-reliefs. 

The  stadhuis  is  comparatively  modern  and  not  extern- 
ally attractive.  Within,  however,  Edam  does  honour  to 
three  fantastic  figures  who  once  were  to  be  seen  in  her 
streets — Peter  Dircksz,  Jan  Cornellissen  and  Trijntje  Kever, 
portraits  of  whom  grace  the  town  hall.  Their  claims  to 
fame  are  certainly  genuine,  although  unexpected.  Peter’s 
idiosyncrasy  was  a beard  which  had  to  be  looped  up  to  pre- 
vent it  trailing  in  the  mud ; Jan,  at  the  age  of  forty- two, 
when  the  artist  set  to  work  upon  him,  weighed  thirty-two 
stones  and  six  pounds;  while  Trijntje  was  a maiden  nine 
feet  tall  and  otherwise  ample.  Peter  and  Trijntje  were, 
I believe,  true  children  of  Edam,  but  Jan  was  a mere  im- 
port, having  conveyed  his  bulk  thither  from  Friesland. 
Like  our  own  Daniel  Lambert,  he  kept  an  inn.  One  of 
Trijntje’s  shoes  is  also  preserved — liker  to  a boat  than 
anything  else. 

I have  by  no  means  exhausted  Edam’s  roll  of  honour. 


202 


THE  MERMAID 


Shipowner  Osterlen  must  be  added — a burgher,  who,  in 
1682,  when  his  portrait  was  painted,  could  point  (and  in 
the  canvas  does  point,  with  no  uncertain  finger,)  to  ninety- 
two  ships  of  which  he  was  the  possessor.  And  a legend  of 
Edam  tells  how  once  in  1403,  when  the  country  was  inun- 
dated by  the  sea,  some  girls  taking  fresh  water  to  the  cows 
saw  and  captured  a mermaid.  Her  (like  the  lady  in  Mr. 
Wells’s  story)  they  dressed  and  civilised,  and  taught  to  sow 
and  spin,  but  could  never  make  talk.  Possibly  it  is  this 
mermaid  who,  caught  in  a fisherman’s  net,  is  represented 
in  bas-relief  (as  the  fish  that  pleases  all  tastes)  on  one  of 
the  facades  of  Edam,  with  accompanying  verses  which 
must  not  be  translated,  embodying  comments  upon  the 
nature  of  the  haul  by  various  typical  and  very  plain-spoken 
members  of  society — a soldier  and  a schoolmaster,  a monk 
and  a fowler,  for  example. 

Edam  has  yet  another  hero.  On  the  Dam  bridge  are 
iron-backed  benches  which  never  grow  rusty.  “ One  owes 
this  particularity,”  says  Through  Noord-Holland^  to  the 
invention  of  an  Edamer  about  1569,  who  also  took  his 
secret  with  him  into  the  grave.” 

To  the  little  fishing  village  of  Volendam,  paradise  of 
quaint  costumes  and  gay  prettinesses,  artists  invariably 
resort.  Like  much  of  Monnickendam,  and  indeed  almost 
all  Dutch  seaside  settlements,  the  village  is,  if  not  below 
sea-level,  almost  invisible  from  the  water,  on  account  of 
an  obliterating  dyke.  At  the  Helder  one  can  consider^ 
the  rampart  reasonable,  but  here,  v^here  there  is  no  foe 
but  the  Zuyder  Zee,  it  may  seem  fantastic.  If  we  lived 
there  in  winter,  however,  the  precaution  would  soon  be 
justified,  for  the  Zuyder  Zee  can  on  occasion  roar  like  a lion. 
It  is  odd  to  reflect  that  Volendam,  Monnickendam  and 
Marken  may  become  ordinary  inland  hamlets  in  the  midst 


VOLKNDAM 


VOLENDAM  AND  PURMEREND 


203 


of  gi’een  fields  if  the  great  scheme  for  draining  the 
Zuyder  Zee  is  carried  through. 

If  the  people  and  village  of  Volendam  are  to  be  described 
in  a phrase,  they  may  be  called  better  Markeners  in  a 
better  Marken.  The  decoration  of  the  pointed  red-roofed 
houses  is  similar;  there  is  the  same  prevailing  and  very 
ingratiating  passion  for  blue  Delft — and  a very  beautiful 
blue  too  ; the  clothes  of  the  men  and  women  have  a family 
resemblance.  But  Volendam  is  in  every  way  better — 
although  its  open  drain  is  a sore  trial : it  is  more  human, 
more  natural.  The  men  hold  the  record  for  Dutch  taci- 
turnity. They  also  smoke  more  persistently  and  wear  larger 
sabots  than  I saw  anywhere  else,  leaving  them  outside  their 
doors  with  a religious  exactitude  that  suggests  that  the  good- 
wives  of  Volendam  know  how  to  be  obeyed.  The  women 
discard  the  Marken  ringlets  and  richness  of  embroidery,  but 
in  the  matter  of  petticoats  they  approach  the  Scheveningen 
and  Huizen  standards.  Their  jewellery  resolves  itself  into 
a coral  necklace,  while  the  men  wear  silver  buttons — both 
coming  down  from  mother  to  daughter,  and  father  to  son. 

The  fishing  fleet  of  Volendam  sails  as  far  as  the  North 
Sea,  but  it  is  always  in  Volendam  by  Saturday  morning. 
Hence  if  you  would  see.  the  Volendam  fishermen  in  their 
greatest  strength  the  time  to  visit  the  little  town  is  at  the 
end  of  the  week  or  on  Sunday. 

The  day  for  Purmerend  is  Tuesday,  because  then  the 
market  is  held,  in  the  castle  plein,  among  mediaeval  sur- 
roundings. To  this  market  the  neighbourhood  seems  to 
send  its  whole  population,  by  road  and  water,  in  gay  cart 
and  comfortable  wherry.  According  to  my  unfailing  in- 
formant in  these  regions,  the  Purmerend  stadhuis,  in 
order  ‘‘to  aggrandise  the  cheese  market,’’  was  in  1633 
“ set  back  a few  meters  by  screwing-force 


204 


WINDMILLS  AND  GREEN  PAINT 


The  excursion  to  Marken  and  the  excursion  to  Edam 
and  its  neighbourhood  take  each  a day;  but  between 
Amsterdam  and  Zaandam,  just  off  the  great  North  Canal, 
steamers  ply  continually,  and  one  may  be  there  in  half  an 
hour.  The  journey  must  be  made,  because  Zaandam  is 
superficially  the  gayest  town  in  Holland  and  the  capital  of 
windmill  land.  In  an  hour’s  drive  (obviously  no  excursion 
for  Don  Quixote)  one  may  pass  hundreds.  These  mills  do 
everything  except  grind  corn.  For  the  most  part  the 
Dutch  mills  pump : but  they  also  saw  wood,  and  cut 
tobacco,  and  make  paper,  and  indeed  perform  all  the  tasks 
for  which  in  countries  less  windy  and  less  leisurely  steam 
or  water  power  is  employed.  The  one  windmill  in  Holland 
which  always  springs  to  my  mind  when  the  subject  is 
mentioned  is,  however,  not  among  Zaandam ’s  legions : it 
is  that  solitary  and  imposing  erection  which  rises  from 
the  water  in  the  Coolsingel  in  Rotterdam.  That  is  my 
standard  Dutch  mill.  Another  which  I always  recall 
stands  outside  Bergen-op-Zoom,  on  the  way  to  Tholen — 
all  white. 

The  Dutch  mill  differs  from  the  English  mill  in  three 
important  respects : it  is  painted  more  gaily  (although  for 
England  white  paint  is  certainly  best) ; it  has  canvas  on 
its  sails ; and  it  is  often  thatched.  Dutch  thatching  is 
very  smooth  and  pretty,  like  an  antelope’s  skin ; and  never 
more  so  than  on  the  windmills. 

Zaandam  lies  on  either  side  of  the  river  Zaan,  here 
broad  and  placid  and  north  of  the  dam  more  like  the 
Thames  at  Teddington,  say,  than  any  stretch  of  water  in 
Holland.  A single  street  runs  beside  the  river  for  about 
a mile  on  both  banks,  the  houses  being  models  of  smil- 
ing neatness,  picked  out  with  cheerful  green  paint.  At 
Zaandam  green  paint  is  at  its  greenest.  It  is  the  national 


PETER  THE  GREAT 


206 


pigment ; but  nowhere  else  in  Holland  have  they  quite  so 
sure  a hand  with  it.  To  the  critics  who  lament  that  there 
is  no  good  Dutch  painting  to-day,  I would  say  ‘^Go  to 
Zaandam’’.  Not  only  is  Zaandam's  green  the  greenest, 
but  its  red  roofs  are  the  reddest,  in  Holland.  A single 
row  of  trees  runs  down  each  of  its  long  streets,  and  on 
the  other  side  of  each  are  illimitable  fields  intersected  by 
ditches  which  on  a cloudless  afternoon  might  be  strips  of 
the  bluest  ribbon. 

We  sat  for  an  hour  in  the  garden  of  ^‘De  Zon,”  a little 
inn  on  the  west  bank  half-way  between  the  dam  and  the 
bridge.  The  landlady  brought  us  coffee,  and  with  it  letters 
from  other  travellers  who  had  liked  her  garden  and  had 
written  to  tell  her  so.  These  she  read  and  purred  over,  as 
a good  landlady  is  entitled  to  do,  while  we  watched  the 
barges  float  past  and  disappear  as  the  distant  lock  opened 
and  swallowed  them. 

South  of  the  dam  the  interest  is  centred  in  the  hut  where 
for  a while  in  1697  Peter  the  Great  lived  to  see  how  the 
Dutchmen  built  their  ships.  The  belief  that  no  other 
motive  than  the  inspection  of  this  very  uninteresting 
cottage  could  bring  a stranger  hither  is  a tenet  of  faith 
to  which  the  Zaandamer  is  bound  with  shackles  of  iron. 
The  moment  one  disembarks  the  way  to  Peter’s  residence 
begins  to  be  pointed  out.  Little  boys  run  before ; sturdy 
men  walk  beside ; old  men  (one  with  a wooden  leg)  struggle 
behind.  It  was  later  that  the  Czar  crossed  to  England  and 
worked  in  the  same  way  at  Deptford;  but  no  visitor  to 
Deptford  to-day  is  required  to  see  his  lodging  there. 

The  real  interest  of  Zaandam  is  not  its  connection  with 
Peter  the  Great  but  the  circumstance  that  it  was  the  birth- 
place of  Anton  Mauve,  in  1838.  He  died  at  Arnheim  in 
1888.  Neither  Zaandam  nor  Arnheim  honours  him. 


CHAPTER  XIV 


ALKMAAR  AND  HOORN,  THE  HELDER  AND  ENKHUISEN 

To  Alkmaar  by  canal — The  Cheese  Market — The  Weigh  House  clock — 
Buyers  and  sellers — The  siege  of  Alkmaar — To  Hoorn  by  sea — A 
Peaceful  harbour — Hoorn’s  explorer  sons — John  Haring’s  bravery 
— The  defeat  of  De  Bossu — Negro  heroes — Hoorn’s  streets — and 
museum — Market  day — and  Kermis — Nieuwediep — The  Helder — 
The  Lighthouse — Hotel  characters — The  praise  of  the  porter — Texel 
— Medemblik — King  Radbod’s  hesitancy — Enkhuisen — Paul  Potter 
— Sir  William  Temple  and  the  old  philosopher — The  Dromedary. 

IF  the  weather  is  fine  one  should  certainly  go  to  Alkmaar 
by  canal.  The  journey  by  water,  on  a steamer,  is 
always  interesting  and  intensely  invigorating.  It  is  only 
one  remove  from  the  open  sea,  so  fiat  is  the  country,  so  free 
the  air. 

Alkmaar’s  magnet  is  its  cheese  market,  which  draws  little 
companies  of  travellers  thither  every  Friday  in  the  season. 
To  see  it  rightly  one  must  reach  Alkmaar  on  the  preced- 
ing afternoon,  to  watch  the  arrival  of  the  boats  from  the 
neighbouring  farms,  and  see  them  unload  their  yellow  freight 
on  the  market  quay.  The  men  who  catch  the  cheeses  are 
exceedingly  adroit — it  is  the  nearest  thing  to  an  English 
game  that  is  played  in  Holland.  Before  they  are  finally 
placed  in  position  the  cheeses  are  liberally  gi^eased,  until 
they  glow  and  glitter  like  orange  fires.  All  the  after- 
noon the  boats  come  in,  with  their  collections  from  the 

various  dairies  on  the  water.  By  road  also  come  cheeses 

(206) 


BARGAINS 


207 


in  wagons  of  light  polished  wood  painted  blue  within ; and 
all  the  while  the  carillon  of  the  beautiful  grave  Weigh 
House  is  ringing  out  its  little  tunes — the  wedding  march 
from  Lohengrin  ” among  them — and  the  little  mechanical 
horsemen  are  charging  in  the  tourney  to  the  blast  of  the 
little  mechanical  trumpeter.  At  one  o’clock  they  run  only 
a single  course ; but  at  noon  the  glories  of  Ashby-de-la- 
Zouche  are  enacted. 

By  nine  o’clock  on  the  Friday  morning  the  market 
square  is  covered  with  rectangular  yellow  heaps  arranged 
with  Dutch  systematic  order  and  symmetry,  many  of  them 
protected  by  tarpaulins,  and  the  square  is  filled  also  with 
phlegmatic  sellers  and  buyers,  smoking,  smoking,  unceas- 
ingly smoking,  and  discussing  the  weather  and  the  cheese, 
the  cheese  and  the  Government. 

Not  till  ten  may  business  begin.  Instantly  the  first 
stroke  of  ten  sounds  the  aspect  of  the  place  is  changed. 
The  Government  and  the  weather  recede ; cheese  emerges 
triumphant.  Tarpaulins  are  stripped  off* ; a new  expres- 
sion settles  upon  the  features  both  of  buyers  and  sellers ; 
the  dealers  begin  to  move  swiftly  from  one  heap  to  an- 
other. They  feel  the  cheeses,  pat  them,  listen  to  them, 
plunge  in  their  scoops  and  remove  a long  pink  stick  which 
they  roll  in  their  fingers,  smell  or  taste  and  then  neatly 
replace.  Meanwhile,  the  seller  stands  by  with  an  air  part 
self-satisfaction,  part  contempt,  part  pity,  part  detachment, 
as  who  should  say  It  matters  nothing  to  me  whether  this 
fussy  fellow  thinks  the  cheese  good  or  not,  buys  it  or  not ; 
but  whether  he  thinks  it  good  or  bad,  or  whether  he  buys, 
or  leaves  it,  it  is  still  the  best  cheese  in  Alkmaar  market, 
and  some  one  will  give  me  my  price  ”. 

The  seller  gnaws  his  cigar,  the  buyer  asks  him  what  he 
asks,  The  buyer  makes  an  oflFer.  The  seller  refuses.  The 


208 


ALKMAAR 


buyer  increases  it.  The  seller  either  refuses  or  accepts. 
In  accepting,  or  drawing  near  acceptance,  he  extends  his 
hand,  which  the  buyer  strikes  once,  and  then  pausing, 
strikes  again.  Apparently  two  such  movements  clench 
the  bargain  ; but  I must  confess  to  being  a bad  guide  here, 
for  I could  find  no  absolute  rule  to  follow.  The  whole 
process  of  Alkmaar  chaflPering  is  exceedingly  perplexing 
and  elusive.  Otherwise  the  buyer  walks  away  to  other 
cheeses,  the  seller  by  no  means  unconscious  of  his  move- 
ments. A little  later  he  returns,  and  then  as  likely  as  not 
his  terms  are  accepted,  unless  another  has  been  beforehand 
with  him  and  bought  the  lot. 

Not  until  half-past  ten  strikes  may  the  weighing  begin. 
At  that  hour  the  many  porters  suddenly  spring  into 
activity  and  hasten  to  the  Weigh  House  with  their  loads, 
which  are  ticketed  off  by  the  master  of  the  scales. 

The  scene  is  altogether  very  Dutch  and  very  interesting  ; 
and  one  should  make  a point  of  crossing  the  canal  to  get 
a general  view  of  the  market,  with  the  river  craft  in  the 
foreground,  the  bustling  dealers  behind,  and  above  all  the 
elaborate  tower  and  facade  of  the  Weigh  House. 

Alkmaar  otherwise  is  not  of  great  interest.  It  has  a 
large  light  church,  bare  and  bleak  according  to  custom, 
with  very  attractive  green  curtains  against  its  whitewash, 
in  which,  according  to  the  author  of  Through  Noord- 
Holland^  is  a tomb  containing  the  entrails  of  Count 
Florence  the  Fifth  Here  also  is  a model  of  one  of  De 
Rujrter’s  ships.  Alkmaar  also  possesses  a charming  Oude 
Mannen  en  Oude  Vrouwen  Huis  (or  alms  house,  as  we 
say)  with  white  walls  and  a very  pretty  tower ; quiet, 
pleasant  streets ; and  on  its  outskirts  a fine  wood  called 
the  Alkmaarder  Hout. 

In  the  Museum,  which  is  not  too  interesting,  is  a picture 


THE  SIEGE 


209 


of  the  siege  of  Alkmaar,  an  episode  of  which  the  town  has 
every  right  to  be  proud.  It  was  the  point  of  attack  by 
the  Duke  of  Alva  and  his  son  after  the  conquest  of 
Haarlem — that  hollow  victory  for  Spain  which  was  more 
costly  than  many  defeats.  Philip  had  issued  a decree 
threatening  the  total  depopulation  of  Holland  unless  its 
cities  submitted  to  the  charms  of  his  attractive  religion. 
The  citizens  of  Alkmaar  were  the  first  to  defy  this  proclama- 
tion. Once  again  Motley  comes  to  our  aid  with  his  vivid 
narrative  : “ The  Spaniards  advanced,  burned  the  village  of 
Egmont  to  the  ground  as  soon  as  the  patriots  had  left  it, 
and  on  the  21st  of  August  Don  Frederic,  appearing  before 
the  walls,  proceeded  formally  to  invest  Alkmaar.  In  a 
few  days  this  had  been  so  thoroughly  accomplished,  that, 
in  Alva’s  language,  ‘ it  was  impossible  for  a sparrow  to 
enter  or  go  out  of  the  city  The  odds  were  somewhat 
unequal.  Sixteen  thousand  veteran  troops  constituted  the 
besieging  force.  Within  the  city  were  a garrison  of  eight 
hundred  soldiers,  together  with  thirteen  burghers, 

capable  of  bearing  arms.  The  rest  of  the  population  con- 
sisted of  a very  few  refugees,  besides  the  women  and 
children.  Two  thousand  one  hundred  able-bodied  men, 
of  whom  only  about  one-third  were  soldiers,  to  resist  six- 
teen thousand  regulars ! 

“Nor  was  there  any  doubt  as  to  the  fate  which  was 
reserved  for  them,  should  they  succumb.  The  Duke  was 
vociferous  at  the  ingratitude  with  which  his  clemency  had 
hitherto  been  requited.  He  complained  bitterly  of  the 
ill  success  which  had  attended  his  monitory  circulars ; re- 
proached himself  with  incredible  vehemence,  for  his  previous 
mildness,  and  protested  that,  after  having  executed  only 
twenty-three  hundred  persons  at  the  suiTender  of  Haarlem, 
besides  a few  additional  burghers  since,  he  had  met  with 
14 


210 


ALVA  ON  KINDNESS 


no  correspondent  demonstrations  of  affection.  He  promised 
himself,  however,  an  ample  compensation  for  all  this  in- 
gratitude in  the  wholesale  vengeance  which  he  purposed 
to  wreck  upon  Alkmaar.  Already  he  gloated  in  anticipa- 
tion over  the  havoc  which  would  soon  be  let  loose  within 
those  walls.  Such  ravings,  if  invented  by  the  pen  of 
fiction,  would  seem  a puerile  caricature ; proceeding,  au- 
thentically, from  his  own,  they  still  appear  almost  too 
exaggerated  for  belief.  ^ If  I take  Alkmaar,’  he  wrote  to 
Philip,  ^ I am  resolved  not  to  leave  a single  creature  alive ; 
the  knife  shall  be  put  to  every  throat.  Since  the  example 
of  Harlem  has  proved  of  no  use,  perhaps  an  example  of 
cruelty  will  bring  the  other  cities  to  their  senses.’  He 
took  occasion  also  to  read  a lecture  to  the  party  of  con- 
ciliation in  Madrid,  whose  counsels,  as  he  believed,  his 
sovereign  was  beginning  to  heed.  Nothing,  he  maintained, 
could  be  more  senseless  than  the  idea  of  pardon  and 
clemency.  This  had  been  sufficiently  proved  by  recent 
events.  It  was  easy  for  people  at  a distance  to  talk 
about  gentleness ; but  those  upon  the  spot  knew  better. 
Gentleness  had  produced  nothings  so  far;  violence  alone 
could  succeed  in  future.  ‘Let  your  Majesty,’  he  said,  ‘be 
disabused  of  the  impression,  that  with  kindness  anything 
can  be  done  with  these  people.  Abeady  have  matters 
reached  such  a point  that  many  of  those  born  in  the 
country,  who  have  hitherto  advocated  clemency,  are  now 
undeceived,  and  acknowledge  their  mistake.  They  are  of 
opinion  that  not  a living  soid  should  be  left  in  Alkmaar^ 
but  that  every  individual  should  be  put  to  the  sword.\  . . 

“ Affairs  soon  approached  a crisis  within  the  beleaguered 
city.  Daily  skirmishes,  without  decisive  result,  had  taken 
place  outside  the  walls.  At  last,  on  the  18th  of  September, 
after  a steady  cannonade  of  nearly  twelve  hours,  Don 


REPULSE 


211 


Frederic  at  three  in  the  afternoon,  ordered  an  assault. 
Notwithstanding  his  seven  months’  experience  at  Haarlem, 
he  still  believed  it  certain  that  he  should  carry  Alkmaar 
by  storm.  The  attack  took  place  at  once  upon  the  Frisian 
gate,  and  upon  the  red  tower  on  the  opposite  side.  Two 
choice  regiments,  recently  arrived  from  Lombardy,  led  the 
onset,  rending  the  air  with  their  shouts,  and  confident  of 
an  easy  victory.  They  were  sustained  by  what  seemed 
an  overwhelming  force  of  disciplined  troops.  Yet  never, 
even  in  the  recent  history  of  Haarlem,  had  an  attack  been 
received  by  more  dauntless  breasts.  Every  living  man  was 
on  the  walls.  The  storming  parties  were  assailed  with 
cannon,  with  musketry,  with  pistols.  Boiling  water,  pitch 
and  oil,  molten  lead,  and  unslaked  lime,  were  poured 
upon  them  every  moment.  Hundreds  of  tarred  and  burn- 
ing hoops  were  skilfully  quoited  around  the  necks  of  the 
soldiers,  who  struggled  in  vain  to  extricate  themselves  from 
these  fiery  ruffs,  while  as  fast  as  any  of  the  invaders  planted 
foot  upon  the  breach,  they  were  confronted  face  to  face 
with  sword  and  dagger  by  the  burghers,  who  hurled  them 
headlong  into  the  moat  below. 

‘^Thrice  was  the  attack  renewed  with  ever-increasing 

o 

rage — thrice  repulsed  with  unflinching  fortitude.  The 
storm  continued  four  hours  long.  During  all  that  period, 
not  one  of  the  defenders  left  his  post,  till  he  dropped  from 
it  dead  or  wounded.  The  women  and  children,  unscared 
by  the  balls  flying  in  every  direction,  or  by  the  hand-to- 
hand  conflicts  on  the  ramparts,  passed  steadily  to  and  fro 
from  the  arsenals  to  the  fortifications,  constantly  supplying 
their  fathers,  husbands,  and  brothers  with  powder  and 
ball.  Thus,  every  human  being  in  the  city  that  could 
walk  had  become  a soldier.  At  last  darkness  fell  upon  the 
scene.  The  trumpet  of  recall  was  sounded,  and  the  Span- 


212 


THE  SPANIARDS  IN  REVOLT 


iards,  utterly  discomfited,  retired  from  the  walls,  lea\dng 
at  least  one  thousand  dead  in  the  trenches,  while  only 
thirteen  burghers  and  twenty-four  of  the  garrison  lost 
theii'  lives.  Thus  was  Alkmaar  preserved  for  a little 
longer — thus  a large  and  well-appointed  army  signally 
defeated  bv  a handful  of  men  fi^htino:  for  their  firesides 
and  altars.  Ensign  Solis,  who  had  mounted  the  breach 
for  an  instant,  and  miraculously  escaped  with  life,  after 
having  been  hurled  from  the  battlements,  reported  that  he 
had  seen  ‘ neither  helmet  nor  harness,’  as  he  looked  down 
into  the  city ; only  some  plain-looking  people,  generally 
dressed  like  fishermen.  Yet  these  plain-looking  fishermen 
had  defeated  the  veterans  of  Alva.  . . . 

“The  day  following  the  assault,  a fresh  cannonade  was 
opened  upon  the  city.  Seven  hundred  shots  ha\Tng  been 
discharged,  the  attack  was  ordered.  It  was  in  vain  ; neither 
threats  nor  entreaties  could  induce  the  Spaniai'ds,  hitherto 
so  indomitable,  to  mount  the  breach.  The  place  seemed 
to  their  imagination  protected  by  more  than  mortal  powers, 
otherwise  how  was  it  possible  that  a few  half-starved  fisher- 
men could  already  have  so  triumphantly  overthrown  the 
time-honoured  legions  of  Spain.  It  was  thought,  no  doubt, 
that  the  Deril,  whom  they  woi'shipped,  would  continue  to 
protect  his  children.  Neither  the  entreaties  nor  the 
menaces  of  Don  Frederic  were  of  anv  avail.  Several 
soldiers  allowed  themselves  to  be  run  through  the  body 
by  their  own  officers,  rather  than  advance  to  the  walls, 
and  the  assault  was  accordingly  postponed  to  an  indefinite 
period.” 

What  seemed  at  first  an  unfortunate  accident  turned 
the  scale.  A messenger  bearing  despatches  from  the 
Prince  of  Orange  fell  into  Spanish  hands  and  Don  Frederic 
learned  that  the  sea  was  to  be  let  in.  Motley  continues : 


WATER  TO  THE  RESCUE 


213 


‘‘  The  resolution  taken  by  Orange,  of  which  Don  Frederic 
was  thus  unintentionally  made  aware,  to  flood  the  country 
far  and  near  rather  than  fail  to  protect  Alkmaar,  made  a 
profound  impression  upon  his  mind.  It  was  obvious  that 
he  was  dealing  with  a determined  leader,  and  with  desper- 
ate men.  His  attempt  to  carry  the  place  by  storm  had 
signally  failed,  and  he  could  not  deceive  himself  as  to  the 
temper  and  disposition  of  his  troops  ever  since  that  re- 
pulse. When  it  should  become  known  that  they  were 
threatened  with  submersion  in  the  ocean,  in  addition  to 
all  the  other  horrors  of  war,  he  had  reason  to  believe  that 
they  would  retire  ignominiously  from  that  remote  and 
desolate  sand  hook,  where,  by  remaining,  they  could  only 
find  a watery  grave.  These  views  having  been  discussed  in 
a council  of  officers,  the  result  was  reached  that  sufficient 
had  been  already  accomplished  for  the  glory  of  the  Spanish 
arms.  Neither  honour  nor  loyalty,  it  was  thought,  re- 
quired that  sixteen  thousand  soldiers  should  be  sacrificed 
in  a contest,  not  with  man,  but  with  the  ocean. 

On  the  8th  of  October,  accordingly,  the  siege,  which 
had  lasted  seven  weeks,  was  raised,  and  Don  Frederic  re- 
joined his  father  in  Amsterdam.  Ready  to  die  in  the  last 
ditch,  and  to  overwhelm  both  themselves  and  their  foes  in 
a common  catastrophe,  the  Hollanders  had  at  last  com- 
pelled their  haughty  enemy  to  fly  from  a position  which 
he  had  so  insolently  assumed.’’ 

Every  one  is  agreed  that  Hoorn  should  be  approached 
by  water,  because  it  rises  from  the  sea  like  an  enchanted 
city  of  the  East,  with  its  spires  and  its  Harbour  Tower 
beautifully  unreal.  And  as  the  ship  comes  nearer  there 
is  the  additional  interest  of  wondering  how  the  apparently 
landlocked  harbour  is  to  be  entered,  a long  green  bar 
seeming  to  stretch  unbrokenly  from  side  to  side.  At  the 


214 


THE  BLESSED  HORN 


last  minute  the  passage  is  revealed,  and  one  glides  into  this 
romantic  port.  I put  Hoorn  next  to  Middelburg  in  the 
matter  of  charm,  but  seen  from  the  sea  it  is  of  greater 
fascination.  In  many  ways  Hoorn  is  more  remarkable 
as  a to^Ti,  ,but  more  of  my  heart  belongs  to  Middel- 
burg. 

I sat  on  the  coping  of  the  hai'bour  at  sundown  and 
watched  a merry  paii:y  dining  in  the  saloon  of  a white 
and  exceedingly  comfortable-looking  yacht,  some  thirty 
or  forty  yai'ds  away.  Two  neat  maids  continually  passed 
from  the  galley  to  the  saloon,  and  laughter  came  over  the 
water.  The  yacht  was  from  Arnheim,  its  owner  having 
all  the  appearance  of  a retired  East  Indian  official.  In  the 
distance  was  a tinv  sailing  boat  with  its  sail  set  to  catch 
what  few  puffs  of  wind  were  moving.  Its  only  occupant 
was  a man  in  crimson  trousers,  the  reflection  from  which 
made  little  splashes  of  warm  colour  in  the  pearl  grey  sea. 
At  Hooni  there  seems  to  be  a tendency  to  sail  for  pleasure, 
for  as  we  came  away  a party  of  chattering  girls  glided  out 
in  the  care  of  an  elderly  man — bound  for  a cruise  in  the 
Zuyder  Zee. 

It  is  conjectured  that  Hooni  took  its  name  fi*om  the 
mole  protecting  the  harbour,  which  might  be  considered 
to  have  the  shape  of  a horn.  The  city  as  she  used  to  be 
(now  dwindled  to  something  less,  although  the  cheese 
industry  makes  her  prosperous  enough  and  happy  enough) 
was  called  by  the  poet  Vondel  the  trumpet  and  capital  of 
the  Zuyder  Zee,  the  blessed  Horn.  He  refen*ed  particu- 
larly to  the  days  of  Tromp,  whose  ravaging  and  victorious 
navA'  was  composed  largely  of  Hoorn  ships. 

Cape  Horn,  at  the  foot  of  South  America,  is  the  name- 
child  of  the  Dutch  port,  for  the  first  to  discover  the  passage 
round  that  headland  and  to  give  it  its  style  was  Willem 


JOHN  HARING 


215 


Schouten,  a Hoorn  sailor.  It  was  another  Hoorn  sailor, 
Abel  Tasman,  who  discovered  Van  Diemen’s  Land  (now 
called  after  him)  and  also  New  Zealand  ; and  a third,  Jan 
Pieters  Coen  (whose  statue  may  be  seen  at  Hoorn)  who 
founded  the  Dutch  dominions  in  the  East  Indies,  and 
thus  changed  the  whole  character  of  his  own  country, 
leading  to  that  orientalising  to  which  I have  so  often 
referred. 

A more  picturesque  hero  was  John  Haring  of  Hoorn, 
who  performed  a great  feat  in  1572,  when  De  Sonoy,  the 
Prince  of  Orange’s  general,  was  fighting  De  Bossu,  the 
Spanish  Admiral,  off  the  Y,  just  at  the  beginning  of  the 
siege  of  Haarlem.  An  unexpected  force  of  Spaniards  from 
Amsterdam  overwhelmed  the  few  men  whom  De  Sonoy 
had  mustered  for  the  defence  of  the  Diemerdyk.  I quote 
Motley’s  account : Sonoy,  who  was  on  his  way  to  their 

rescue,  was  frustrated  in  his  design  by  the  unexpected  faint- 
heartedness of  the  volunteers  whom  he  had  enlisted  at  Edam. 
Braving  a thousand  perils,  he  advanced,  almost  unattended, 
in  his  little  vessel,  but  only  to  witness  the  overthrow  and 
expulsion  of  his  band.  It  was  too  late  for  him  singly  to 
attempt  to  rally  the  retreating  troops.  They  had  fought 
well,  but  had  been  forced  to  yield  before  superior  numbers, 
one  individual  of  the  little  army  having  performed  prodigies 
of  valour.  John  Haring,  of  Hoorn,  had  planted  himself 
entirely  alone  upon  the  dyke,  where  it  was  so  narrow 
between  the  Y on  the  one  side  and  Diemer  Lake  on 
the  other,  that  two  men  could  hardly  stand  abreast.  Here, 
armed  with  sword  and  shield,  he  had  actually  opposed 
and  held  in  check  one  thousand  of  the  enemy,  during 
a period  long  enough  to  enable  his  own  men,  if  they 
had  been  willing,  to  rally,  and  effectively  to  repel  the 
attack.  It  was  too  late,  the  battle  was  too  far  lost  to 


216 


A SEA  FIGHT 


be  restored  ; but  still  the  brave  soldier  held  the  post, 
till,  by  his  devotion,  he  had  enabled  all  those  of  his  com- 
patriots who  still  remained  in  the  entrenchments  to  make 
good  their  retreat.  He  then  plunged  into  the  sea,  and, 
untouched  by  spear  or  bullet,  effected  his  escape.  Had 
he  been  a Greek  or  a Roman,  a Horatius  or  a Chabras, 
his  name  would  have  been  famous  in  history — his  statue 
erected  in  the  market-place ; for  the  bold  Dutchman  on  his 
dyke  had  manifested  as  much  valour  in  a sacred  cause  as  the 
most  classic  heroes  of  antiquity.” 

Then  came  the  siege  of  Haarlem,  and  then  the  siege 
of  Alkmaar.  Hoorn’s  turn  followed,  but  Hoorn  was 
gloriously  equal  to  it  in  the  hands  of  Admiral  Dirckzoon, 
whose  sword  is  in  the  Alkmaar  museum,  and  whose  tomb 
is  at  Delft.  Motley  shall  tell  the  story:  “On  the  11th 
October,  however,  the  whole  patriot  fleet,  favored  by  a 
strong  easterly  breeze,  bore  down  upon  the  Spanish  armada, 
which,  numbering  now  thirty  sail  of  all  denominations, 
was  lying  off*  and  on  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Hoorn  and 
Enkhuyzen.  After  a short  and  general  engagement, 
nearly  all  the  Spanish  fleet  retired  with  precipitation, 
closely  pursued  by  most  of  the  patriot  Dutch  vessels. 
Five  of  the  King’s  ships  were  eventually  taken,  the  rest 
effected  their  escape.  Only  the  Admiral  remained,  who 
scorned  to  yield,  although  his  forces  had  thus  basely 
deserted  him.  His  ship,  the  ^ Inquisition,’  for  such  was  her 
insolent  appellation,  was  far  the  largest  and  best  manned  of 
both  the  fleets.  Most  of  the  enemy  had  gone  in  pursuit  of 
the  fugitives,  but  four  vessels  of  inferior  size  had  attacked  the 
inquisition’  at  the  commencement  of  the  action.  Of  these, 
one  had  soon  been  silenced,  while  the  other  three  had 
grappled  themselves  inextricably  to  her  sides  and  prow. 
The  four  drifted  together,  before  wind  and  tide,  a severe 


JOHN  HARING  AGAIN 


217 


and  savage  action  going  on  incessantly,  during  which  the 
navigation  of  the  ships  was  entirely  abandoned.  No 
scientific  gunnery,  no  military  or  naval  tactics  were  dis- 
* played  or  required  in  such  a conflict.  It  was  a life-and- 
death  combat,  such  as  always  occurred  when  Spaniard 
and  Netherlander  met,  whether  on  land  or  water.  Bossu 
and  his  men,  armed  in  bullet-proof  coats  of  mail,  stood 
with  shield  and  sword  on  the  deck  of  the  ^ Inquisition,’  ready 
to  repel  all  attempts  to  board.  The  Hollander,  as  usual, 
attacked  with  pitch  hoops,  boiling  oil,  and  molten  lead. 
Repeatedly  they  effected  their  entrance  to  the  Admiral’s 
ship,  and  as  often  they  were  repulsed  and  slain  in  heaps,  or 
hurled  into  the  sea. 

The  battle  began  at  three  in  the  afternoon,  and  con- 
tinued without  intermission  through  the  whole  night. 
The  vessels,  drifting  together,  struck  on  the  shoal  called 
the  Nek,  near  Wydeness.  In  the  heat  of  the  action  the 
occurrence  was  hardly  heeded.  In  the  morning  twilight, 
John  Haring,  of  Hoorn,  the  hero  who  had  kept  one  thousand 
soldiers  at  bay  upon  the  Diemer  dyke,  clambered  on  board 
the  ‘ Inquisition,’  and  hauled  her  colors  down.  The  gallant 
but  premature  achievement  cost  him  his  life.  He  was  shot 
through  the  body  and  died  on  the  deck  of  the  ship,  which 
was  not  quite  ready  to  strike  her  flag.  In  the  course  of 
the  forenoon,  however,  it  became  obvious  to  Bossu  that 
further  resistance  was  idle.  The  ships  were  aground  near 
a hostile  coast,  his  own  fleet  was  hopelessly  dispersed,  three- 
quarters  of  his  crew  were  dead  or  disabled,  while  the 
vessels  with  which  he  was  engaged  were  constantly  re- 
cruited by  boats  from  the  shore,  which  brought  fresh  men 
and  ammunition,  and  removed  their  killed  and  wounded. 
At  eleven  o’clock  Admiral  Bossu  surrendered,  and  with 
three  hundred  prisoners  was  carried  into  Holland.  Bossu 


218 


DE  RUYTER’S  NEGROES 


was  himself  imprisoned  at  Hoorn,  in  which  city  he  was 
received,  on  his  arrival,  with  great  demonstrations  of 
popular  hatred.’’ 

De  Bossu  remained  in  prison  for  three  years.  Later 
he  fought  for  the  States.  His  goblet  is  preserved  at 
Hoorn.  His  collar  is  at  Monnickendam  and  his  sword 
at  Enkhuisen. 

The  room  in  the  Protestant  orphanage  where  De  Bossu 
was  imprisoned  is  still  to  be  seen ; and  you  may  see  also 
at  the  corner  of  the  Grooteoost  the  houses  from  which  the 
good  wives  and  housekeepers  watched  the  progress  of  the 
battle,  and  on  which  a bas-relief  representation  of  the 
battle  was  afterwards  placed  in  commemoration. 

Two  more  heroes  of  Hoorn  may  be  seen  in  effigy  on  the 
facade  of  the  State  College,  opposite  the  Weigh  House, 
guarding  an  English  shield.  The  shield  is  placed  there, 
among  the  others,  on  account  of  a daring  feat  performed 
by  two  negro  sailors  in  De  Ruyter’s  fleet  in  the  Thames, 
who  ravished  from  an  English  ship  in  distress  the  shield 
at  her  stern  and  presented  it  to  Hoorn,  their  adopted 
town,  where  it  is  now  supported  by  bronze  figures  of  its 
captors. 

Hoorn’s  streets  are  long  and  cheerful,  with  houses  graci- 
ously bending  forwards,  many  of  them  dignified  by  black 
paint  and  yet  not  made  too  grave  by  it.  This  black  paint 
blending  with  the  many  trees  on  the  canal  sides  has  the 
same  curious  charm  as  at  Amsterdam,  although  there  the 
blackness  is  richer  and  more  absolute.  Even  the  Hoorn 
warehouses  are  things  of  beauty  r'-  one  in  particular,  by  the 
Harbour  Tower,  with  bright  green  shutters,  is  indescribably 
gay,  almost  coquettish.  Hoorn  also  has  the  most  satisfying 
little  houses  I saw  in  Holland — streets  of  them.  And  of  all 
the  costumes  of  Holland  I remember  most  vividly  the  dead 


DARNLEY  AND  MARY 


219 


black  dress  and  lace  cap  of  a woman  who  suddenly  turned 
a corner  here — as  if  she  had  walked  straight  from  a picture 
by  Elias. 

The  Harbour  Tower  is  perhaps  Hoorn’s  finest  building, 
its  charm  being  intensified  rather  than  diminished  by  the 
hideous  barracks  close  by.  St.  J an’s  Gasthuis  has  a fa9ade 
of  beautiful  gravity,  and  the  gateway  of  the  home  for 
Ouden  Vrouwen  is  perfect.  The  museum  in  the  Tribunals- 
hof  is  the  most  intimate  and  human  collection  of  curiosities 
which  I saw  in  Holland — not  a fossil,  not  a stuffed  bird, 
in  the  building.  Among  the  pictures  are  the  usual  groups 
of  soldiers  and  burgomasters,  and  the  usual  fine  deter- 
mined De  Ruyter  by  Bol.  We  were  shown  Hoorn’s 
treasures  by  a pleasant  girl  who  allowed  no  shade  of  tedium 
to  cross  her  smiling  courteous  face,  although  the  display 
of  these  ancient  pictures  and  implements,  ornaments  and 
domestic  articles  must  have  been  her  daily  work  for  years. 
In  the  top  room  of  all  is  a curious  piece  of  carved  stone 
on  which  may  be  read  these  inscriptions : — 

This  most  illustrious  Prince, 

Henry  Lord  Darnley,  King  of  Scotland, 

Father  to  our  Soveraigne  Lord  King  James. 

He  died  at  the  age  of  21. 

The  most  excellent  Princesse  Marie,  Queen  of  Scotland, 

Mother  of  our  Soveraigne,  Lord  King  James. 

She  died  1586,  and  entombed  at  West  Minster. 

It  would  be  interesting  to  know  more  of  this  memorial. 

In  another  room  are  two  carved  doors  from  a house  in 
Hoorn  that  had  been  disfurnished  which  give  one  a very 
vivid  idea  of  the  old  good  taste  of  this  people  and  the  little 
palaces  of  grave  art  in  which  they  lived. 

Thursday  is  Hoorn’s  market  day,  and  it  is  important  to 


220 


THE  LIGHTHOUSE 


be  there  then  if  one  would  see  the  market  carts  of  North 
Holland  in  abundance.  We  had  particularly  good  fortune 
since  our  Thursday  was  not  only  market  day  but  the 
Kermis  too.  I noticed  that  the  principal  attraction  of  the 
fau',  for  boys,  was  the  stalls  (unknown  at  the  Kermis  both 
at  Middelburg  and  Leyden)  on  which  a variety  of  flat  cake 
was  chopped  with  a hatchet.  The  chopper,  who  I under- 
stand is  entitled  only  to  what  he  can  sever  with  one  blow, 
often  fails  to  get  any. 

Nieuwediep  and  The  Holder,  at  the  extreme  north  of  Hol- 
land, are  one,  and  interesting  only  to  those  to  whom  naval 
works  are  interesting.  For  they  are  the  Portsmouth  and 
Woolwich  of  the  country.  My  memories  of  these  twin 
towns  are  not  too  agreeable,  for  when  I was  there  in  1897 
the  voyage  from  Amsterdam  by  the  North  Holland  canal 
had  chilled  me  through  and  through,  and  in  1904  it  rained 
without  ceasing.  Nieuwediep  is  all  shipping  and  sailors, 
cadet  schools  and  hospitals.  The  Helder  is  a dull  town, 
with  the  least  attractive  architecture  I had  seen,  cowering 
beneath  a huge  dyke  but  for  which,  one  is  assured,  it  would 
lie  at  the  bottom  of  the  North  Sea.  Under  rain  it  is  a 
drearier  town  than  any  I know ; and  ordinarily  it  is  bleak 
and  windy,  saved  only  by  its  kites,  which  are  flown  from 
the  dyke  and  sail  over  the  sea  at  immense  heights.  Every 
boy  has  a kite — one  more  link  between  Holland  and  China. 

I climbed  the  lighthouse  at  The  Helder  just  before  the 
lamp  was  lit.  It  was  an  impressive  ceremony.  The 
captain  and  his  men  stood  all  ready,  the  captain  watching 
the  sun  as  it  sunk  on  the  horizon.  At  the  instant  it  dis- 
appeared he  gave  the  word,  and  at  one  stride  came  the 
light.  I chanced  at  the  moment  to  be  standing  between 
the  lantern  and  the  sea,  and  I was  asked  to  move  with  an 
earnestness  of  entreaty,  in  which  the  safety  of  a whole  navy 


MARKET  PLACE  WEIGH- HOUSE • HOORN 


POET  AND  BARITONE 


221 


seemed  to  be  involved.  The  light  may  be  seen  forty-eight 
miles  away.  It  is  fine  to  think  of  all  the  eyes  within  that 
extent  of  sea,  invisible  to  us,  caught  almost  simultaneously 
by  this  point  of  flame. 

I did  not  stay  at  Nieuwediep  but  at  The  Helder.  Thirty 
years  ago,  however,  one  could  have  done  nothing  so  in- 
artistic, for  then,  according  to  M.  Havard,  the  Hotel  Ten 
Burg  at  Nieuwediep  had  for  its  landlord  a poet,  and  for 
its  head  waiter  a baritone,  and  to  stay  elsewhere  would 
have  been  a crime.  Here  is  M.  Havard’s  description  of 
these  virtuosi : “ No  one  ever  sees  the  landlord  the  first  day 
he  arrives  at  the  hotel.  M.  B.  R.  de  Breuk  is  not  acces- 
sible to  ordinary  mortals.  He  lives  up  among  the  clouds, 
and  when  he  condescends  to  come  down  to  earth  he  shuts 
himself  up  in  his  own  room,  where  he  indulges  in  pleasant 
intercourse  with  the  Muses. 

^^I  have  no  objection  to  confessing  that,  although  I am 
a brother  in  the  art,  and  have  stayed  several  times  at  his 
hotel,  I have  never  once  been  allowed  to  catch  a glimpse 
of  his  features.  The  head-waiter,  happily,  is  just  the 
contrary.  It  is  he  who  manages  the  hotel,  receives  travel- 
lers, and  arranges  for  their  well-being.  He  is  a handsome 
fellow,  with  a fresh  complexion,  heavy  moustache,  and  one 
lock  of  hair  artificially  arranged  on  his  forehead.  He  is 
perfectly  conscious  of  his  own  good  looks,  and  wears  rings 
on  both  his  hands.  Nature  has  endowed  him  with  a 
sonorous  baritone  voice,  the  notes  of  which,  whether  sharp 
or  melodious,  he  is  careful  in  expressing,  because  he  is 
charmed  with  his  art,  and  has  an  idea  that  it  is  fearfully 
egotistical  to  conceal  such  treasures.  One  note  especially 
he  never  fails  to  utter  distinctly,  and  that  is  the  last — the 
note  of  payment. 

“ Sometimes  he  allows  himself  to  become  so  absorbed  in 


222 


HOTEL  PORTERS 


his  art  that  he  forgets  the  presence  in  the  hotel  of  tired 
travellers,  and  disturbs  their  slumbers  by  loud  roulades 
and  cadences ; or  perhaps  he  is  asked  to  fetch  a bottle  of 
beer,  he  stops  on  the  way  to  the  cellar  to  perfect  the  har- 
mony of  a scale,  and  does  not  return  till  the . patience 
of  the  customer  is  exhausted.  But  who  would  have  the 
heart  to  complain  of  such  small  grievances  when  the  love 
of  song  is  stronger  than  any  other  ? ” 

I had  no  such  fortune  in  Holland.  No  hotel  proprietor 
rhymed  for  me,  no  waiter  sang.  My  chief  friends  were 
rather  the  hotel  porters,  of  whom  I recall  in  particular 
two — the  paternal  colossus  at  the  Amstel  in  Amsterdam, 
who  might  have  sat  for  the  Creator  to  an  old  master — 
urbane,  efficient,  a storehouse  of  good  counsel ; and  the 
plump  and  wide  cynic  into  whose  capable  and  kindly  hands 
one  falls  at  the  Oude  Doelen  at  The  Hague,  that  shrewd 
and  humorous  reader  of  men  and  Americans.  I see  yet  his 
expression  of  pity,  not  wholly  (yet  perhaps  sufficiently) 
softened  to  polite  interest,  when  consulted  as  to  the  best 
way  in  which  to  visit  Alkmaar  to  see  the  cheese  market. 
That  any  one  staying  at  The  Hague — and  more,  at  the 
Oude  Doelen — should  wish  to  see  traffic  in  cheese  at  a 
provincial  town  still  strikes  his  wise  head  as  tragic,  although 
it  happens  every  week.  I honour  him  for  it  and  for  the 
exquisite  tact  with  which  he  retains  his  opinion  and  allows 
you  to  have  yours. 

A poet  landlord  and  an  operatic  head  waiter,  what  are 
they  when  all  is  said  beside  a friendly  hotel  porter  ? He 
is  the  Deics  ex  machind  indeed.  The  praises  of  the  hotel 
porter  have  yet  to  be  sung.  O Switzerland  ! the  poet  might 
begin  (not,  probably,  a landlord  poet)  O Switzerland — I 
give  but  a bald  paraphrase  of  the  spirited  original — O 
Switzerland,  thou  land  of  peaks  and  cow  bells,  of  wild 


RADBOD’S  DOUBTS 


223 


strawberries  and  nonconformist  conventions,  of  grasshoppers 
and  climbing  dons,  thou  hast  strange  limitations  ! Thou 
canst  produce  no  painter,  thou  possessest  no  navy  ; but 
thou  makesfc  the  finest  hotel  porters  in  the  wmrld.  Erect, 
fair-haired,  blue-eyed,  tactful  and  informing,  they  are  the 
true  friends  of  the  homeless ! — And  so  on  for  many 
strophes. 

To  Texel  I did  not  cross,  although  it  is  hard  for  any  one 
who  has  read  The  Riddle  of  the  Sands  to  refrain.  Had  we 
been  there  in  the  nesting  season  I might  have  wandered  in 
search  of  the  sea  birds’  and  the  plovers’  eggs,  just  for  old 
sake’s  sake,  as  I have  in  the  island  of  Coll,  but  we  were 
too  late,  and  The  Helder  had  depressed  us.  It  was  off  the 
Island  of  Texel  on  31st  July,  1653,  that  Admiral  Tromp 
was  killed  during  his  engagement  with  the  English  under 
Monk. 

Medemblik,  situated  on  the  point  of  a spur  of  land 
between  The  Helder  and  Enkhuisen,  was  once  the  residence 
of  Radbod  and  the  Kings  of  Frisia.  It  is  now  nothing. 
One  good  story  at  any  rate  may  be  recalled  there.  When 
Radbod,  King  of  the  Frisians,  was  driven  out  of  Western. 
Frisia  in  689  by  Pepin  of  Heristal,  Duke  and  Prince  of  the 
Franks  (father  of  Charles  Martel  and  great  grandfather  of 
Charlemagne,  who  completed  the  conquest  of  Frisia),  the 
defeated  king  was  considered  a convert  to  Christianity,  and 
the  preparations  for  his  baptism  were  made  on  a grand 
scale.  Never  a whole-hearted  convert,  Radbod,  even  as  one 
foot  was  in  the  water,  had  a visitation  of  doubt.  Where, 
he  made  bold  to  ask,  were  the  noble  kings  his  ancestors, 
who  had  not,  like  himself,  been  offered  this  inestimable 
privilege  of  baptism — in  heaven  or  in  hell  ? The  officiating 
Bishop  replied  that  they  were  doubtless  in  hell.  Then,” 
said  Radbod,  withdrawing  his  foot,  I think  it  would  be 


224 


PAUL  POTTER 


better  did  I join  them  there,  rather  than  go  alone  to 
Paradise/’ 

Enkhuisen,  where  one  embarks  for  Friesland,  is  a Dead 
City  of  the  Zuyder  Zee,  with  more  signs  of  dissolution 
than  most  of  them.  Once  she  had  a population  of  sixty 
thousand ; that  number  must  now  be  divided  by  ten. 

Above  all  things,”  says  M.  Havard,  the  discoverer  of 
Dead  Cities,  avoid  a promenade  in  this  deserted  town 
with  an  inhabitant  familiar  with  its  history,  otherwise  you 
will  constantly  hear  the  refrain ; ‘ Here  was  formerly  the 
richest  quarter  of  commerce ; there,  where/  the  houses  are 
falling  into  total  ruin,  was  the  quarter  of  our  aristocracy.’ 
But  more  painful  still,  when  we  have  arrived  at  what  ap- 
pears the  very  end  of  the  town,  the  very  last  house,  we  see 
at  a distance  a gate  of  the  city.  A hundred  years  ago 
the  houses  joined  this  gate.  It  took  us  a walk  of  twenty 
minutes  across  the  meadows  to  arrive  at  this  deserted  spot.” 
I did  not  explore  the  town,  and  therefore  I cannot  speak 
with  any  authority  of  its  possessions ; but  I saw  enough 
to  realise  what  a past  it  must  have  had. 

At  Enkhuisen  was  born  Paul  Potter,  who  painted  the 
famous  picture  of  the  bull  in  the  Mauritshuis  at  The  Hague. 
The  year  1625  saw  his  birth  ; and  it  was  only  twenty-nine 
years  later  that  he  died.  While  admiring  Potter’s  technical 
powers,  I can  imagine  few  nervous  trials  more  exacting 
than  having  to  live  with  his  bull  intimately  in  one’s  room. 
This  only  serves  to  show  how  temperamental  a matter  is 
art  criticism,  for  on  each  occasion  that  I have  been  to  the 
Mauritshuis  the  bull  has  had  a ring  of  mute  or  throbbing 
worshippers,  while  Vermeer’s  View  of  Delft  ” was  without 
a devotee.  I have  seen,  however,  little  scenes  of  cattle  by 
Potter  which  were  attractive  as  well  as  masterly. 

Sir  William  Temple,  in  his  Observations  upon  the 


A PHILOSOPHER 


225 


United  Provinces  gives  a very  human  page  to  this  old 
town  : Among  the  many  and  various  hospitals,  that  are 

in  every  man’s  curiosity  and  talk  that  travels  their  country, 
I was  affected  with  none  more  than  that  of  the  aged  seamen 
at  Enchuysen,  which  is  contrived,  finished,  and  ordered,  as 
if  it  were  done  with  a kind  intention  of  some  well-natured 
man,  that  those,  who  had  passed  their  whole  lives  in  the 
hardships  and  incommodities  of  the  sea,  should  find  a retreat 
stored  with  all  the  eases  and  conveniences  that  old  age  is 
capable  of  feeling  and  enjoying.  And  here  I met  with  the 
only  rich  man  that  ever  I saw  in  my  life  : for  one  of  these 
old  seamen  entertaining  me  a good  while  with  the  plain 
stories  of  his  fifty  years’  voyages  and  adventures,  while  I was 
viewing  their  hospital,  and  the  church  adjoining,  I gave 
him,  at  parting,  a piece  of  their  coin  about  the  value  of  a 
crown  : he  took  it  smiling,  and  offered  it  me  again ; but, 
when  I refused  it,  he  asked  me.  What  he  should  do  with 
money  ? for  all,  that  ever  they  wanted,  was  provided  for 
them  at  their  house.  I left  him  to  overcome  his  modesty 
as  he  could ; but  a servant,  coming  after  me,  saw  him  give 
it  to  a little  girl  that  opened  the  church  door,  as  she  passed 
by  him : which  made  me  reflect  upon  the  fantastic  calcula- 
tion of  riches  and  poverty  that  is  curi’ent  in  the  world,  by 
which  a man,  that  wants  a million,  is  a Prince ; he,  that 
wants  but  a groat,  is  a beggar ; and  this  a poor  man,  that 
wanted  nothing  at  all.” 

Hoorn’s  Harbour  Tower,  as  I have  said,  has  a charm 
beyond  description  ; but  Enkhuisen’s  — known  as  the 
Dromedary  — is  un wieldly  and  plain.  It  has,  however, 
this  advantage  over  Hoorn’s,  its  bells  are  very  beauti- 
ful. One  sees  the  Dromedary  for  some  miles  on  the 
voyage  to  Stavoren  and  Friesland. 


15 


CHAPTER  XV 


FRIESLAND:  STAVOREN  TO  LEEUWARDEN 

Enkhuisen  to  Stavoren — Draining  the  Zuyder  Zee — The  widow  and 
the  sandbank — Frisian  births  and  courtships — Hindeloopen — Quaint 
rooms  and  houses — A pious  pun — Biers  for  all  trades — Sneek — Barge 
life — Two  giants — Bolsward — The  cow — A digression  on  the  weed. 

The  traveller  from  Amsterdam  enters  Free  Frisia  at 
Stavoren,  once  the  home  of  kings  and  now  a mere 
haven.  A little  steamer  carries  the  passengers  from  Enk- 
huisen, while  the  cattle  trucks  and  vans  of  merchandise 
cross  the  Zuyder  Zee  in  a huge  railway  raft.  The  steamer 
takes  an  hour  or  a little  longer — time  enough  to  have  lunch 
on  deck  if  it  is  fine,  and  watch  Enkhuisen  fading  into 
nothingness  and  Stavoren  rising  from  the  sea. 

Before  the  thirteenth  century  the  Zuyder  Zee  consisted 
only  of  Lake  Flevo,  south  of  Stavoren  and  Enkhuisen, 
so  that  our  passage  then  would  have  been  made  on  land. 
'But  in  1282  came  a great  tempest  which  drove  the  German 
ocean  over  the  north-west  shores  of  Holland,  insulating  Texel 
and  pourings  over  the  low  land  between  Holland  and  Fries- 
land. The  scheme  now  in  contemplation  to  drain  the  Zuy- 
der Zee  proposes  a dam  from  Enkhuisen  to  Piaam,  thus  re- 
claiming some  1,350,000  acres  for  meadow  land.  Since  what 
man  has  done  man  can  do,  there  is  little  doubt  but  that 
the  Dutch  will  carry  through  this  great  project. 

Concerning  Stavoren  there  is  now  but  one  thing  to  say, 

(226) 


4 


DROMEDARIS  TOWER,  ENKHUISEN 


THE  WIDOW^S  CORN 


227 


and  no  writer  on  Holland  has  had  the  temerity  to  avoid 
saying  it.  That  thing  is  the  story  of  the  widow  and  the 
sandbank.  It  seems  that  at  Stavoren  in  its  palmy  days 
was  a wealthy  widow  shipowner,  who  once  gave  instructions 
to  one  of  her  captains,  bound  for  a foreign  port,  that  he 
should  bring  back  the  most  valuable  and  precious  thing  to 
be  found  there,  in  exchange  for  the  outward  cargo.  The 
widow  expected  I know  not  what — ivory,  perhaps,  or  pea- 
cocks, or  chrysoprase — and  when  the  captain  brought  only 
grain,  she  was  so  incensed  that,  though  the  poor  of  Stavo- 
ren implored  her  to  give  it  them,  she  bade  him  forthwith 
throw  it  overboard.  This  he  did,  and  the  corn  being  cursed 
there  sprang  up  on  that  spot  a sandbank  which  gradually 
ruined  the  harbour  and  the  town.  The  bank  is  called  The 
Widow’s  Corn  to  this  day. 

It  was  near  Stavoren  that  M.  Havard  engaged  in  a 
pleasant  and  improving  conversation  with  a lock-keeper 
who  had  fought  with  France,  and  from  him  learned  some 
curious  things  about  Friesland  customs.  I quote  a little  : 
When  a wife  has  given  birth  to  a boy  and  added  a son 
to  Friesland,  all  her  female  friends  come  to  see  her  and 
drink  in  her  room  the  brandewyn^  which  is  handed  round 
in  a special  cup  or  goblet.  Each  woman  brings  with  her  a 
large  tart,  all  of  which  are  laid  out  in  the  room — sometimes 
they  number  as  many  as  thirty.  The  more  there  are  and 
the  finer  the  cakes  the  better,  because  that  proves  the  number 
of  friends.  A few  days  later  the  new-born  Frieslander  is 
taken  to  church,  all  the  girls  from  twelve  years  old  accom- 
panying the  child  and  carrying  it  each  in  turn.  As  soon 
as  they  reach  the  church  the  child  is  handed  to  the  father, 
who  presents  it  for  baptism.  Not  a girl  in  the  place  would 
renounce  her  right  to  take  part  in  the  little  procession,  for 
it  is  a subject  of  boasting  when  she  marries  to  be  able  to 


228 


THE  FIRE  OF  LOVE 


say,  have  accompanied  this  and  that  child  to  its  bap- 
tism ^ Besides,  it  is  supposed  to  ensm^e  happiness,  and  that 
she  in  her  turn  will  have  a goodly  number  of  little  ones. 

‘^^Well  and  how  about  betrothals?’  ^Ah!  ha!  that’s 
another  thing.  The  girl  chooses  the  lad.  You  know  the 
old  proverb,  ^ There  are  only  two  things  a girl  chooses  her- 
self— her  potatoes  and  her  lover’.  You  can  well  imagine 
how  such  things  begin.  They  see  each  other  at  the  hermis^ 
or  in  the  street,  or  fields.  Then  one  fine  day  the  lad  feels 
his  heart  beating  louder  than  usual.  In  the  evening  he  puts 
on  his  best  coat,  and  goes  up  to  the  house  where  the  girl  lives. 

The  father  and  mother  give  him  a welcome,  which  the 
girls  smile  at,  and  nudge  each  other.  No  one  refers  to 
the  reason  for  his  visit,  though  of  course  it  is  well  known 
why  he  is  there.  At  last,  when  bedtime  comes,  the  children 
retire — even  the  father  and  mother  go  to  their  room — and 
the  girl  is  left  alone  at  the  fireside  with  the  young  man. 

They  speak  of  this  and  that,  and  everything,  but  not  a 
word  of  love  is  uttered.  If  the  girl  lets  the  fire  go  down, 
it  is  a sign  she  does  not  care  for  the  lad,  and  won’t  have 
him  for  a husband.  If,  on  the  contrary,  she  heaps  fuel  on 
the  fire,  he  knows  that  she  loves  him  and  means  to  accept 
him  for  her  affianced  husband.  In  the  first  case,  all  the 
poor  lad  has  to  do  is  to  open  the  door  and  retire,  and 
never  put  his  foot  in  the  house  again.  But,  in  the  other, 
he  knows  it  is  all  right,  and  from  that  day  forward  he  is 
treated  as  if  he  belonged  to  the  family.’  ^ 

^ And  how  long  does  the  engagement  last  ? ’ 

‘‘‘Oh,  about  as  long  as  everywhere  else — two,  three 
years,  more  or  less,  and  that  is  the  happiest  time  of  their 
lives.  The  lad  takes  his  girl  about  everywhere ; they  go 
to  the  hermis,  skate,  and  amuse  themselves,  and  no  one 
troubles  or  inquires  about  them,  Even  the  girl’s  parents 


cows 


229 


allow  her  to  go  about  with  her  lover  without  asking  any 
questions/  ” 

A Dutch  proverb  says,  “Take  a Brabant  sheep,  a 
Gueldei'land  ox,  a Flemish  capon  and  a Frisian  cow”. 
The  taking  of  the  Frisian  cow  certainly  presents  few  diffi- 
culties, for  the  surface  of  Friesland  is  speckled  thickly  with 
that  gentle  animal — ample  in  size  and  black  and  white  in 
hue.  The  only  creatures  that  one  sees  from  the  carriage 
windows  on  the  railway  journey  are  cows  in  the  fields  and 
plovers  above  them.  Now  and  then  a man  in  his  blue 
linen  coat,  now  and  then  a heron;  but  cows  always  and 
plovers  always.  Never  a bullock.  The  meadows  of 
Holland  ai'e  a female  republic.  Perkin  Middlewick  (in 
Our  Boys)  had  made  so  much  money  out  of  pork  that 
whenever  he  met  a pig  he  was  tempted  to  raise  his  hat ; 
the  Dutch,  especially  of  North  Holland  and  Friesland, 
should  do  equal  homage  to  their  friend  the  cow.  Edam 
acknowledges  the  obligation  in  her  municipal  escutcheon. 

Stavoren  may  be  dull  and  unalluring,  but  not  so  Hinde- 
loopen,  the  third  station  on  the  railway  to  Leeuwarden, 
where  we  shall  stay.  At  Hindeloopen  the  journey  should  be 
broken  for  two  or  three  hours.  Should,  nay  must.  Hinde- 
loopen (which  means  stag  hunt)  has  been  called  the  Museum 
of  Holland.  All  that  is  most  picturesque  in  Dutch  furni- 
ture and  costume  comes  from  this  little  town — or  professes 
to  do  so,  for  the  manufacture  of  spurious  Hindeloopen 
cradles  and  stoofjes,  chairs  and  cupboards,  is  probably  a 
recognised  industry. 

In  the  museum  at  Leeuwarden  are  two  rooms  arranged 
and  furnished  exactly  in  the  genuine  Hindeloopen  manner, 
and  they  are  exceedingly  charming  and  gay.  The  smaller 
of  the  two  has  the  ordinary  blue  and  white  Dutch  tiles, 
with  scriptural  or  other  subjects,  around  >the  walls  to  the 


230 


HINDELOOPEN 


height  of  six  feet ; above  them  are  pure  white  tiles,  to  the 
ceiling,  with  an  occasional  delicate  blue  pattern.  The 
floor  is  of  red  and  brown  tiles.  All  the  furniture  is  painted 
very  gaily  upon  a cream  or  white  background — with  a 
gaiety  that  has  a touch  of  the  Orient  in  it.  The  bed  is 
hidden  behind  painted  woodwork  in  the  wall,  like  a berth, 
and  is  gained  by  a little  flight  of  movable  steps,  also 
radiant.  I never  saw  so  happy  a room.  On  the  wall  is 
a cabinet  of  curios  and  silver  ornaments. 

The  larger  room  is  similiar  but  more  costly.  On  the 
wall  are  fine  Delft  plates,  and  seated  at  the  table  are  wax 
Hindeloopeners  : a man  with  a clay  pipe  and  tobacco  box, 
wearing  a long  flowered  waistcoat,  a crossed  white  neck- 
cloth and  black  coat  and  hat — not  unlike  a Quaker  in 
festival  attire ; and  his  neat  and  very  picturesque  women 
folk  are  around  him.  In  the  cradle,  enshrined  in  ornamen- 
tations, is  a Hindeloopen  baby.  More  old  silver  and 
shining  brass  here  and  there,  and  the  same  resolute  cheer- 
fulness of  colouring  everywhere.  Some  of  the  houses  in 
which  such  rooms  were  found  still  stand  at  Hindeloopen. 

The  Dutch  once  liked  puns,  and  perhaps  still  do  so. 
Again  and  again  in  their  old  inscriptions  one  finds  experi- 
ments in  the  punning  art.  On  the  church  of  Hindeloopen, 
for  example,  are  these  lines : — 

Des  heeren  woord 
Met  aandacht  hoort 
Komt  daartoe  met-hoopen 
Als  hinder!  loopen. 

The  poet  must  have  had  a drop  of  Salvationist  blood  in 
his  veins,  for  only  in  General  Booth’s  splendid  followers  do 
we  look  for  such  spirited  invitations.  The  verses  call  upon 
worshippers  to  run  together  like  deer  to  hear  the  word  of 
God. 


THE  SPINNER 

NICOLAS  MAES 

From  the  picture  i)t  the  Ryks  Museum 


BARGE  LIFE 


231 


Within  the  great  church,  among  other  interesting 
things,  are  a large  number  of  biers.  These  also  are  deco- 
rated according  to  the  pretty  Hindeloopen  usage,  one  for 
the  dead  of  each  trade.  Order  even  in  death.  The  Hin- 
deloopen baker  who  has  breathed  his  last  must  be  carried 
to  the  grave  on  the  bakers’  bier,  or  the  proprieties  will 
wince. 

After  Hindeloopen  the  first  town  of  importance  on  the 
way  to  Leeuwarden  is  Sneek ; and  Sneek  is  not  important. 
But  Sneek  has  a water-gate  of  quaint  symmetrical  charm, 
with  two  little  spires — the  least  little  bit  like  the  infewnt 
child  of  the  Amsterdam  Gate  at  Haarlem.  In  common 
with  so  many  Frisian  towns  Sneek  has  suffered  from  flood. 
A disastrous  inundation  overwhelmed  her  on  the  evening 
of  All  Saints’  Day  in  1825,  when  the  dykes  were  broken 
and  the  water  rushed  in  to  the  height  of  five  feet.  Such 
must  be  great  times  of  triumph  for  the  floating  popula- 
tion, who,  like  the  sailor  in  the  old  ballad  of  the  sea,  may 
well  pity  the  unfortunate  and  insecure  dwellers  in  houses. 
What  the  number  of  Friesland’s  floating  population  is  I 
do  not  know ; but  it  must  be  very  large.  Many  barges 
and  tjalcks  are  both  the  birthplace  and  deathplace  of  their 
owners,  who  know  no  other  home.  The  cabins  are  not 
less  intimately  cared  for  and  decorated  than  the  sitting- 
rooms  of  Volendam  and  Marken. 

We  saw  at  Edam  certain  odd  characters  formed  in 
Nature’s  wayward  moods.  Sneek  also  possessed  a giant 
named  Lange  Jacob,  who  was  eight  feet  tall  and  the 
husband  of  Korte  Jannetje  (Little  Jenny),  who  was  just 
half  that  height.  People  came  from  great  distances  to 
see  this  couple.  And  at  Sneek,  in  the  church  of  St. 
Martin,  is  buried  a giant  of  more  renown  and  prowess — 
Peter  van  Heemstra,  or  Lange  Pier  ” as  he  was  called 


232 


EAST  AND  WEST  MEET 


from  his  inches,  a sea  ravener  of  notable  ferocity,  whose 
two-handed  sword  is  preserved  at  Leeuwarden — although, 
as  M.  Havard  says,  what  useful  purpose  a two-handed  sword 
can  serve  to  an  admiral  on  a small  ship  baffles  reflection. 

Bolsward,  Sneek’s  neighbour,  is  another  amphibious 
town,  with  a very  charming  stadhuis  in  red  and  white, 
crowned  by  an  Oriental  bell  tower  completely  out  of  keep- 
ing with  the  modern  Frisian  who  hears  its  voice.  This 
constant  occurrence  of  Oriental  freakishness  in  the  archi- 
tecture of  Dutch  towns,  in  contrast  with  Dutch  occidental 
four-square  simplicity  and  plainness  of  character,  is  an 
effect  to  which  one  never  quite  grows  accustomed. 

Bolsward’s  church,  which  is  paved  with  tomb-stones, 
among  them  some  very  rich  ones  in  high  relief — too  high 
for  the  comfort  of  the  desecrating  foot — has  a fine  carved 
pulpit,  some  oak  stalls  of  great  antiquity  and  an  imposing 
bell  tower. 

It  is  claimed  that  the  Frisians  were  the  first  Europeans 
to  smoke  pipes.  Whether  or  not  that  is  the  case,  the 
Dutch  are  now  the  greatest  smokers.  Recent  statistics 
show  that  whereas  the  annual  consumption  of  tobacco  by 
every  inhabitant  of  Great  Britain  and  Ireland  is  1*34  lb., 
_ and  of  Germany  3 lb.,  that  of  the  Dutch  is  7 lb.  Putting 
the  smoking  population  at  30  per  cent,  of  the  total — 
allowing  thus  for  women,  children  and  non-smokers — this 
means  that  every  Dutch  smoker  consumes  about  eight  ounces 
of  tobacco  a week,  or  a little  more  than  an  ounce  a day. 

I excepted  women  and  children,  but  that  is  wrong.  The 
boys  smoke  too — sometimes  pipes,  oftenest  cigars.  At  a 
music  hall  at  The  Hague  I watched  a contest  in  generosity 
between  two  friends  in  a family  party  as  to  which  should 
supply  a small  boy  in  sailor  suit,  evidently  the  son  of  the 
host,  with  a cigar.  Both  won. 


PROPHYLACTIC  TOBACCO 


233 


Fell,  writing  in  1801,  says  that  the  Dutch,  although 
smoke  dried,  were  not  then  smoking  so  much  as  they  had 
done  twenty  years  before.  The  Dutchmen,  he  says,  “ of 
the  lower  classes  of  society,  and  not  a few  in  the  higher 
walks  of  life,  carry  in  their  pockets  the  whole  apparatus 
which  is  necessary  for  smoking : — a box  of  enormous  size, 
which  frequently  contains  half  a pound  of  tobacco  ; a pipe 
of  clay  or  ivory,  according  to  the  fancy  or  wealth  of  the 
possessor  ; if  the  latter,  instruments  to  clean  it ; a pricker 
to  remove  obstructions  from  the  tube  of  the  pipe ; a cover 
of  brass  wire  for  the  bowl,  to  prevent  the  ashes  or  sparks 
of  the  tobacco  from  flying  out;  and  sometimes  a tinder- 
box,  or  bottle  of  phosphorus,  to  procure  fire,  in  case  none 
is  at  hand. 

“ The  excuse  of  the  Dutch  for  their  lavish  attachment 
to  tobacco,  in  the  most  offensive  form  in  which  it  can  be 
exhibited,  is,  that  the  smoke  of  this  transatlantic  weed  pre- 
serves them  from  many  disorders  to  which  they  are  liable 
from  the  moisture  of  the  atmosphere  of  their  country,  and 
enables  them  to  bear  cold  and  wet  without  inconvenience.” 

Fell  supports  this  curious  theory  by  relating  that  when, 
soaked  by  a storm,  he  arrived  at  an  inn  at  Overschie,  the 
landlord  offered  him  a pipe  of  tobacco  to  prevent  any  bad 
consequences.  Fell,  however,  having  none  of  his  friend 
Charles  Lamb’s' affection  for  the  friendly  traitress,  declined 
it  with  asperity. 

Ireland  has  an  ingenious  theory  to  account  for  the 
addiction  of  the  Dutch  to  tobacco.  It  is,  he  says,  the 
succedaneum  to  purify  the  unwholesome  exhalations  of 
the  canals.  ^^A  Dutchman’s  taciturnity  forbids  his  com- 
plaining ; so  that  all  his  waking  hours  are  silently  employed 
in  casting  forth  the  filthy  puff  of  the  weed,  to  dispel  the 
more  filthy  stench  of  the  canal.” 


234 


CIGARS 


Ireland’s  view  was  probably  an  invention ; but  this  I 
know,  that  the  Dutch  cigar  and  the  Dutch  atmosphere 
are  singularly  well  adapted  to  each  other.  I brought 
home  a box  of  a brand  which  was  agreeable  in  Holland, 
and  they  were  unendurable  in  the  sweet  air  of  Kent. 

The  cigar  is  the  national  medium  for  consuming  tobacco, 
cigarettes  being  practically  unknown,  and  pipes  rare  in 
the  streets.  My  experience  of  the  Dutch  cigar  is  that  it 
is  a very  harmless  luxury  and  a very  persuasive  one.  After 
a little  while  it  becomes  second  nature  to  drop  into  a 
tobacconist’s  and  slip  a dozen  cigars  into  one’s  pocket,  at 
a cost  of  a few  pence;  and  the  cigars  being  there,  it  is 
another  case  of  second  nature  to  smoke  them  practically 
continuously.  Of  these  cigars,  which  range  in  price  from 
one  or  two  cents  to  a few  pence  each,  there  are  hundreds 
if  not  thousands  of  varieties. 

The  number  of  tobacconists  in  Holland  must  be  very 
great,  and  the  trade  is  probably  strong  enough  to  resist 
effectually  the  impost  on  the  weed  which  was  recently 
threatened  by  a daring  Minister,  if  ever  it  is  attempted. 
The  pretty  French  custom  of  giving  tobacco  licences  to 
the  widows  of  soldiers  is  not  adopted  here ; indeed  I do 
not  see  that  it  could  be,  for  the  army  is  only  100,000 
strong.  In  times  of  stress  it  might  perhaps  be  advisable 
to  send  the  tobacconists  out  to  fight,  and  keep  the  soldiers 
to  mind  as  many  of  their  shops  as  could  be  managed, 
shutting  up  the  rest. 


CHAPTER  XVI 


LEEUWARDEN  AND  NEIGHBOURHOOD 

An  agricultural  centre — A city  of  prosperity  and  health — The  fair  Frisians 
— Metal  head-dresses — Silver  work — The  Chancellerie — A paradise 
of  blue  china — Jumping  poles — The  sea  swallow — A Sunday  ex- 
cursion— Dogs  for  England — The  idle  busybodies — The  stork — A 
critical  village — The  green  crop — The  dyke — A linguist — Harlingen 
— ^A  Dutch  picture  collector-— Franeker — The  Planetarium — Dokkum^s 
bad  reputation — A discursive  guide-book — Bigamy  punished — A hus- 
band-tamer— Boxum’s  record — Sjuck’s  short  way — ^The  heroic  Bauck 
— A load  of  exorcists — Poor  Lysse. 

IN  an  hour  or  two  the  train  brings  us  to  Leeuwarden, 
between  flat  green  meadows  unrelieved  save  for  the 
frequent  isolated  homesteads,  in  which  farm  house,  dairy, 
barn,  cow  stalls  and  stable  are  all  under  one  great  roof 
that  starts  almost  from  the  ground.  On  the  Essex  flats 
the  homesteads  have  barns  and  sheltering  trees  to  keep 
them  company:  here  it  is  one  house  and  a mere  hedge 
of  saplings  or  none  at  all.  For  the  rest — cows  and  plovers, 
plovers  and  cows. 

Friesland’s  capital,  Leeuwarden,  might  be  described  as  an 
English  market  town,  such  as  Horsham  in  Sussex,  scoured 
and  carried  out  to  its  highest  power,  rather  than  a small 
city.  The  cattle  trade  of  Friesland  has  here  its  head- 
quarters, and  a farmer  needing  agricultural  implements 
must  fare  to  Leeuwarden  to  buy  them.  The  Frisian  farmer 

(235) 


236 


THE  FAIR  FRISIANS 


certainly  does  need  them,  for  it  is  his  habit  to  take  three 
crops  of  short  hay  off  his  meadows,  rather  than  one  crop 
of  long  hay  in  the  English  manner. 

Not  only  cattle  but  also  horses  are  sold  in  Leeu warden 
market.  The  Frisian  horse  is  a noble  animal,  truly  the 
friend  of  man ; and  the  Frisians  are  fond  of  horses  and 
indulge  both  in  racing  and  in  trotting — or  hardraverij 

as  they  pleasantly  call  it.  I made  a close  friend  of  a Frisian 
mare  on  the  steamer  from  Rotterdam  to  Dort.  At  Dort 
I had  to  leave  her,  for  she  was  bound  for  Nymwegen.  A 
most  charming  creature. 

Leeuwarden  is  large  and  prosperous  and  healthy.  What 
one  misses  in  it  is  any  sense  of  intimate  cosiness.  One  seems 
to  be  nearer  the  elements,  farther  from  the  ingratiating 
works  of  man,  than  hitherto  in  any  Dutch  town.  The 
strong  air,  the  openness  of  land,  the  180  degrees  of  sky,  the 
northern  sharpness,  all  are  far  removed  from  the  solace  of 
the  chimney  corner.  It  is  a Spartan  people,  prefemng 
hard  health  to  overcoats  ; and  the  streets  and  houses  re- 
flect this  temperament.  They  are  clean  and  strong  and 
bare — no  huddling  or  niggling  architecture.  Everything 
also  is  bright,  the  effect  largely  of  paint,  but  there  must 
be  something  very  antiseptic  in  this  Frisian  atmosphere. 

The  young  women  of  Leeuwarden — the  fair  Frisians — 
are  tall  and  strong  and  fresh  looking ; not  exactly  beauti- 
ful but  very  pleasant.  “There  go  good  wives  and  good 
mothers,’^  one  says.  Their  Amazonian  air  is  accentuated 
by  the  casque  of  gold  or  silver  which  fits  tightly  over  their 
heads  and  gleams  through  its  lace  covering : perhaps  the 
most  curious  head-dress  in  this  country  of  elaborate  head- 
dresses, and  never  so  curious  as  when,  on  Sundays,  an 
ordinary  black  bonnet,  bristling  with  feathers  and  jet,  is 
mounted  on  the  top  of  it.  That,  however,  is  a refinement 


CLARA  ALEWIJN 
DIRCK  SANTVOORT 
From  the  picttcre  i7i  the  Ryks  Museic. 


THE  CHANCELLERIE 


237 


practised  only  by  the  middle-aged  and  elderly  women  : the 
young  women  wear  either  the  casque  or  a hat,  never  both. 
If  one  climbs  the  Oldehof  and  looks  down  on  the  city  on  a 
sunny  day — as  I did — the  glint  of  a metal  casque  continu- 
ally catches  the  eye.  These  head-dresses  are  of  some  value, 
and  are  handed  on  from  mother  to  daughter  for  genera- 
tions. No  Dutch  woman  is  ever  too  poor  to  lay  by  a little 
jewellery;  and  many  a domestic  servant  carries,  I am  told, 
twenty  pounds  worth  of  goldsmith’s  work  upon  her. 

Once  Leeuwarden  was  famous  for  its  goldsmiths  and 
silversmiths,  but  the  interest  in  precious  metal  work  is  not 
what  it  was.  Many  of  the  little  silver  ornaments — the 
windmills,  and  houses,  and  wagons,  and  boats — which  once 
decorated  Dutch  sitting-rooms  as  a matter  of  course,  and 
are  now  prized  by  collectors,  were  made  in  Leeuwarden. 

The  city’s  architectural  jewel  is  the  Chancellerie,  a 
very  ornate  but  quite  successful  building  dating  from  the 
sixteenth  century : first  the  residence  of  the  Chancellors, 
recently  a prison,  and  now  the  Record  Office  of  Friesland. 
Not  until  the  Middelburg  stadhuis  shall  we  see  anything 
more  cheerfully  gay  and  decorative.  The  little  Weigh 
House  is  in  its  own  way  very  charming.  But  for  gravity 
one  must  go  to  the  Oldehof,  a sombre  tower  on  the 
ramparts  of  the  city.  Once  the  sea  washed  its  very  walls. 

To  the  ordinary  traveller  the  most  interesting  things  in 
the  Leeuwarden  museum,  which  is  opposite  the  Chancel- 
lerie, are  the  Hindeloopen  rooms  which  I have  described 
in  the  last  chapter ; but  to  the  antiquary  it  offers  great 
entertainment.  Among  ancient  relics  which  the  spade  has 
revealed  are  some  very  early  Frisian  tobacco  pipes.  Among 
the  pictures,  for  the  most  part  very  poor,  is  a dashing 
Carolus  Duran  and  a very  beautiful  little  Daubigny. 
Affiliated  to  the  museum  is  one  of  the  best  collections 


238 


THE  SEA  SWALLOW 


of  Delft  china  in  Holland — a wonderful  banquet  of  blue. 
This  alone  makes  it  necessary  to  visit  Leeu  warden. 

All  about  Leeu  warden  the  boys  have  jumping  poles  for 
the  ditches,  and  you  may  see  dozens  at  a time,  after  school, 
leaping  backwards  and  forwards  over  the  streams,  like  frogs. 
Children  abound  in  Friesland : the  towns  are  filled  with 
boys  and  girls ; but  one  sees  few  babies.  In  Holland  the 
very  old  and  the  very  young  are  alike  invisible. 

One  of  the  first  things  that  I noticed  at  Leeuwarden 
was  the  presence  of  a new  bird.  Hitherto  I had  seen 
only  the  familiar  birds  that  we  know  at  home,  except 
for  a stork  here  and  there  and  more  herons  than  one 
catches  sight  of  in  England  save  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  one  of  our  infrequent  heronries.  But  at  Leeuwarden 
you  find,  sweeping  and  plaining  over  the  canals,  the  beauti- 
ful tern,  otherwise  known  as  the  sea  swallow,  white  and 
powerful  and  delicately  graceful,  and  possessed  of  a double 
portion  of  the  melancholy  of  birds  of  the  sea.  Of  the 
bittern,  which  is  said  to  boom  continually  over  the  Fries- 
land meres,  I caught  no  glimpse  and  heard  no  sound. 

From  Leeuwarden  I rode  one  Sunday  morning  by  the 
steam-tram  to  St.  Jacobie  Parochie,  a little  village  in  the 
extreme  north-west,  where  I proposed  to  take  a walk 
upon  the  great  dyke.  It  was  a chilly  morning,  and  I 
was  glad  to  be  inside  the  compartment  as  we  rattled  along 
the  road.  The  only  other  occupant  was  a young  minister 
in  a white  tie,  puffing  comfortably  at  his  cigar,  which  in 
the  manner  of  so  many  Dutchmen  he  seemed  to  eat  as  he 
smoked.  For  a while  we  were  raced — and  for  a few  yards 
beaten — by  two  jolly  boys  in  a barrow  drawn  by  a pair 
of  gallant  dogs  who  foamed  past  us  ventre  a terre  with  six 
inches  of  flapping  tongue. 

The  introduction  into  England  of  dogs  as  beasts  of 


OUR  THREE  NATIONS 


239 


draught  would  I suppose  never  be  tolerated.  A score  of 
humanitarian  societies  would  spring  into  being  to  prevent 
it : possibly  with  some  reason,  for  one  has  little  faith  in 
the  considerateness  of  the  average  English  costermonger  or 
barrow-pusher.  And  yet  the  dog-workers  of  the  Nether- 
lands seem  to  be  cheerful  beasts,  wearing  their  yoke  very 
easily.  I have  never  seen  one,  either  in  Holland  or 
Belgium,  obviously  distressed  or  badly  treated.  Why 
the  English  dog  should  so  often  be  a complete  idler,  and 
his  brother  across  the  sea  the  useful  ally  of  man,  is  an 
ethnological  problem : the  reason  lying  not  with  the 
animals  but  with  the  nations.  The  Flemish  and  Dutch 
people  are  essentially  humble  and  industrious,  without 
ambitions  beyond  their  station.  The  English  are  a dis- 
satisfied folk  who  seldom  look  upon  their  present  position 
as  permanent.  The  English  dog  is  idle  because  his  master, 
always  hoping  for  the  miracle  that  shall  make  him  idle 
too,  does  not  really  set  his  hand  to  the  day^s  work  and 
make  others  join  him;  the  Netherlandish  dog  is  busy 
because  his  master  does  not  believe  in  sloth,  and  having 
no  illusions  as  to  his  future,  knows  that  only  upon  a 
strenuous  youth  and  middle  age  can  a comfortable  old  age 
be  built.  Countries  that  have  not  two  nations — the  idle 
and  rich  and  the  poor  and  busy — as  we  have,  are,  I think, 
greatly  to  be  envied.  Life  is  so  much  more  genuine 
there. 

England  indeed  has  three  nations:  the  workers,  the 
idle  rich  who  live  only  for  themselves,  and  the  idle  rich 
or  well-to-do  who  live  also  for  others — in  other  words 
the  busybodies.  The  third  nation  is  the  real  enemy, 
for  an  altruist  who  has  time  on  his  hands  can  do  enormous 
mischief  between  breakfast  and  lunch.  It  is  this  class 
that  would  at  once  make  it  impossible  fgr  a strong  dog 


240 


THE  STORK  AGAIN 


to  help  in  drawing  a poor  man’s  barrow.  The  opportunity 
would  be  irresistible  to  them.  The  resolutions  they  would 
pass ! The  votes  of  thanks  to  the  lieutenant-colonels  in 
the  chair! 

It  was  on  this  little  journey  to  St.  Jacobie  Parochie 
that  I saw  my  first  stork.  Storks’  nests  there  had  been 
in  plenty,  but  all  were  empty.  But  at  Wier,  close  to  St. 
Jacobie  Parochie,  was  a nest  on  a pole  beside  the  road, 
and  on  this  nest  was  a stork.  The  Dutch,  I think,  have 
no  more  endearing  trait  than  their  kindness  to  this  bird. 
Once  at  any  rate  their  solicitude  was  grotesque,  although 
serviceable,  for  Ireland  tells  of  a young  stork  with  a broken 
leg  for  which  a wooden  leg  was  substituted.  Upon  this 
jury  limb  the  bird  lived  happily  for  thirty  years. 

The  stork  alone  among  Dutch  birds  is  sacred,  but  he 
is  not  alone  in  feeling  secure.  The  fowler  is  no  longer  a 
common  object  of  the  country,  as  he  seems  to  have  been 
in  Albert  Cuyp'^s  day,  when  he  returned  in  the  golden 
evening  laden  with  game — for  Jan  Weenix  to  paint. 

St.  Jacobie  Parochie  on  a fine  Sunday  morning  is  no 
place  for  a sensitive  man.  The  whole  of  the  male  popula- 
tion of  the  village  had  assembled  by  the  church — not,  I 
fancy,  with  any  intention  of  entering  it — and  every  eye 
among  them  probed  me  like  a corkscrew.  It  is  an  out  of 
the  world  spot,  to  which  it  is  possible  no  foreigner  ever 
before  penetrated,  and  since  their  country  was  a show  to 
me  I had  no  right  to  object  to  serve  as  a show  to  them. 
But  such  scrutiny  is  not  comfortable.  I hastened  to  the 
sea. 

One  reaches  the  sea  by  a path  across  the  fields  to  an 
inner  dyke  with  a high  road  upon  it,  and  then  by  another 
footpath,  or  paths,  beside  green  ditches,  to  the  ultimate 
dyke  which  hoId§  Neptune  in  check.  As  I walked  I was 


FROGS  AND  A LINGUIST 


241 


continually  conscious  of  heavy  splashes  just  ahead  of  me, 
which  for  a while  I put  down  to  water-rats.  But  chancing 
to  stand  still  I was  presently  aware  of  the  proximity  of  a 
huge  green  frog,  the  largest  I have  ever  seen,  who  sat, 
solid  as  a paper  weight,  close  beside  me,  with  one  eye 
glittering  upon  me  and  the  other  upon  the  security  of  the 
water,  into  which  he  jumped  at  a movement  of  my  hand. 
Walking  then  more  warily  I saw  that  the  banks  on  either 
side  were  populous  with  these  monsters ; and  sometimes  it 
needed  only  a flourish  of  the  handkerchief  to  send  a dozen 
simultaneously  into  the  ditch.  I am  glad  we  have  not 
such  frogs  at  home.  A little  frog  is  an  adorable  creature, 
but  a frog  half-way  to  realising  his  bovine  ambition  is 
a monster. 

The  sea  dyke  is  many  feet  high.  Its  lowest  visible 
stratum  is  of  black  stones,  beneath  the  sea-level ; then  a 
stratum  of  large  red  bricks;  then  turf.  The  willow 
branches  are  invisible,  within.  The  land  hereabout  is  un- 
doubtedly some  distance  below  sea-level,  but  it  is  impos- 
sible either  here  or  anywhere  in  Holland  to  believe  in  the 
old  and  venerable  story  of  the  dyke  plugged  by  an  heroic 
thumb  to  the  exclusion  of  the  ocean  and  the  safety  of  the 
nation. 

As  I lay  on  the  bank  in  the  sun,  listening  to  a thousand 
larks,  with  all  Friesland  on  one  hand  and  the  pearl  grey  sea 
on  the  other,  a passer-by  stopped  and  asked  me  a question 
which  I failed  to  understand.  My  reply  conveyed  my 
nationality  to  him.  ^^Ah,’^  he  said,  ‘^Eenglish.  Do  it 
well  with  you  ? ’’  I said  that  it  did  excellently  well.  He 
walked  on  until  he  met  half  a dozen  other  men,  some 
hundred  yards  away,  when  I saw  him  pointing  to  me  and 
telling  them  of  the  long  conversation  he  had  been  enjoying 
with  me  in  my  own  difficult  tongue.  It  was  quite  clear 

i6 


242 


HARLINGEN 


from  their  interest  that  the  others  were  conscious  of  the 
honour  of  having  a real  linguist  among  them. 

Another  day  I went  to  Harlingen.  I had  intended  to 
reach  the  town  by  steam-tram,  but  the  time  table  was 
deceptive  and  the  engine  stopped  permanently  at  a station 
two  or  three  miles  away.  Fortunately,  however,  a curtained 
brake  was  passing,  and  into  this  I sprang,  joining  two 
women  and  a dominie,  and  together  we  ambled  very  de- 
liberately into  the  quiet  seaport.  Harlingen  is  a double 
harbour — inland  and  maritime.  Barges  from  all  parts  of 
Friesland  lie  there,  transferring  their  goods  a few  yards  to 
the  ocean-going  ships  bound  for  England  and  the  world, 
although  Friesland  does  not  now  export  her  produce  as  once 
she  did.  Thirty  years  ago  much  of  our  butter  and  beef 
and  poultry  sailed  from  Harlingen. 

The  town  lies  in  the  savour  of  the  sea.  Masts  rise  above 
the  houses,  ship-chandlers’  shops  send  forth  the  agreeable 
scent  of  tar  and  cordage,  sailors  and  stevedores  lounge 
against  posts  as  only  those  that  follow  the  sea  can  do. 
I had  some  beef  and  bread,  in  the  Dutch  midday 
manner,  in  the  upper  room  of  an  inn  overlooking  the 
harbour,  while  two  shipping-clerks  played  a dreary  game 
of  billiards.  Beyond  the  dyke  lay  the  empty  grey  sea, 
with  Texel  or  Vlieland  a faint  dark  line  on  the  horizon. 
Nothing  in  the  town  suggested  the  twentieth  century,  or 
indeed  any  century.  Time  was  not. 

I wish  that  Mr.  Bos  had  been  living,  that  I might  have 
called  upon  him  and  seen  his  pictures,  as  M.  Havard  did. 
But  he  is  no  more,  and  I found  no  one  to  tell  me  of  the 
fate  of  his  collection.  Possibly  it  is  still  to  be  seen : 
certainly  other  visitors  to  Harlingen  should  be  more  ener- 
getic than  I was,  and  make  sure.  Here  is  M.  Havard’s 
account  of  Mr.  Bos  and  an  evening  at  his  house  : Mr.  Bos 


MR.  BOS 


243 


started  in  life  as  a farm-boy — then  became  an  assistant  in 
a shop.  Instead  of  spending  his  money  at  the  beer-houses 
be  purchased  books.  He  educated  himself,  and  being  pro- 
vident, steady,  industrious,  he  soon  collected  sufficient 
capital  to  start  in  business  on  his  own  account,  which  he 
did  as  a small  cheesemonger ; but  in  time  his  business 
prospered,  and  to  such  an  extent  that  one  day  he  awoke 
to  findi  himself  one  of  the  greatest  and  richest  merchants 
of  Harlingen. 

‘‘  Many  under  these  circumstances  would  have  considered 
rest  was  not  undeserved ; but  Mr.  Bos  thought  otherwise. 
He  became  passionately  fond  of  the  arts.  Instead  of  pur- 
chasing stock  he  bought  pictures,  then  the  books  necessary 
to  understand  them,  and  what  with  picking  up  an  engraving 
here  and  a painting  there  he  soon  became  possessed  of  a most 
interesting  collection,  and  of  an  artistic  knowledge  sufficient 
for  all  purposes.  But  to  appreciate  the  virtue  (the  term 
is  not  too  strong)  of  this  aimable  man,  one  should  know 
the  difficulties  he  had  to  surmount  before  gaining  his 
position.  It  is  no  joke  when  one  lives  in  a town  like 
Harlingen  to  act  differently  from  other  people.  Tongues 
are  as  well  hung  there  as  in  any  small  French  town. 
Instead  of  encouraging  this  brave  collector,  they  laughed 
at  and  ridiculed  him.  His  taste  for  the  arts  was  regarded 
as  a mania.  In  fact,  he  was  looked  upon  as  a madman,  and 
even  to  this  ds^y,  notwithstanding  his  successful  career,  he  is 
looked  upon  as  no  better  than  a lunatic.  Happily  a taste 
for  art  gives  one  joys  that  makes  the  remarks  of  fools 
and  idiots  pass  like  water  off  a duck’s  back. 

When  we  called  on  Mr.  Bos  he  was  absent ; but  as  soon 
as  Madame  Bos  was  made  acquainted  with  our  names  we 
received  a most  cordial  reception.  She  is,  however,  a most 
charming  woman,  combining  both  amiability  and  affability. 


244 


THE  PLANETARIUM 


with  a venerable  appearance ; and,  notwithstanding  her  im- 
mense fortune  and  gold  plate,  still  wears  the  large  Prison  cap 
of  the  good  old  times.  She  was  anxious  to  do  the  honours 
of  the  collection  in  person,  and  immediately  sent  for  her 
son,  so  that  we  might  receive  every  information. 

“ Mr.  Bos  returned  home  the  same  evening,  and  at  once 
came  on  board,  and  would  not  leave  until  we  had  promised 
to  spend  the  evening  at  his  house,  which  we  did  in  the 
Prison  fashion — that  is  to  say,  that  whilst  examining  the 
pictures  we  were  compelled  to  devour  sundry  plates  of 
soeskrahelingen^  a kind  of  pastry  eaten  with  cheese ; also 
to  empty  several  bottles  of  old  wine. 

A slight  incident  that  occurred  shortly  before  our  de- 
parture touched  me  greatly.  ‘You  think,  sir,’  said  Mr. 
Bos,  ‘ that  because  I do  not  understand  Prench,  I have  not 
read  the  books  you  have  written  on  our  National  Arts. 
Pi’ay  undeceive  yourself,  for  here  is  a translation  of  it.’ 
The  old  gentleman  then  placed  before  me  a complete  manu- 
script translation  of  the  work,  which  he  had  had  made 
specially  for  himself.” 

The  special  lion  of  Praneker,  which  I visited  on  my  way 
back  from  Harlingen,  is  the  Planetarium  of  Eisa  Eisinga,  a 
mathematician  and  wool-comber,  who  constructed  it  alone 
in  his  back  parlour  between  1774  and  1781.  Interest 
in  planetaria  is,  I should  say,  an  acquired  taste  ; but 
there  can  be  no  doubt  as  to  the  industry  and  ingenuity  of 
this  inventor.  The  wonders  of  the  celestial  law  are  unfolded 
by  a very  tired  young  woman,  whose  attitude  to  the  solar 
system  is  probably  similar  to  that  of  Miss  Jelly  by  to  Africa. 
After  her  lecture  one  stumbles  upstairs  to  see  the  clock- 
work which  controls  the  spheres,  and  is  then  free  once  more. 

Praneker  is  proud  also  of  her  tombstones  in  the  great 
church,  but  it  is,  I fancy,  Eisa  Eisinga  whom  she  most  ad- 


DOKKUM’S  PUNISHMENT 


245 


mires.  She  was  once  the  seat  of  an  honourable  University, 
which  Napoleon  suppressed  in  1811.  Her  learning  gone, 
she  remains  a very  pleasant  and  clean  little  town.  By 
some  happy  arrangement  all  the  painting  seems  to  be  done 
at  once — so  different  from  London,  where  a fresh  fa9ade 
only  serves  to  emphasise  a dingy  one.  But  although  the 
quality  of  the  paint  can  be  commended,  the  painters  of 
Franeker  are  undoubtedly  allowed  too  much  liberty.  They 
should  not  have  been  permitted  to  spread  their  colour  on 
the  statues  of  the  stadhuis. 

The  principal  street  has  an  avenue  of  elm  trees  down  its 
midst,  in  the  place  where  a canal  would  be  expected ; but 
canals  traverse  the  town  too.  Upon  the  deck  of  a peat 
barge  I watched  a small  grave  child  taking  steady  and 
unsmiling  exercise  on  a rocking  horse. 

I did  not  go  to  Dokkum,  which  lies  at  the  extreme  north 
of  Friesland.  Mr.  Doughty,  the  author  of  an  interesting 
book  of  Dutch  travel,  called  Friesland  Meres — he  was  the 
first  that  ever  burst  into  these  silent  canals  in  a Norfolk 
wherry — gives  Dokkum  a very  bad  character,  and  so  do 
other  travellers.  It  seems  indeed  always  to  have  been  an 
unruly  and  inhospitable  town.  As  long  ago  as  853  it  was 
resisting  the  entry  of  strangers.  The  strangers  were  Saint 
Boniface  and  his  companion,  whom  Dokkum  straightway 
massacred.  King  Pepin  was  furious  and  sent  an  army  on 
a punitive  mission ; while  Heaven  supplemented  Pepin’s 
efforts  by  permanently  stigmatising  the  people  of  the 
town,  all  the  men  thenceforward  being  marked  by  a white 
tuft  of  hair  and  all  the  women  by  a bald  patch. 

At  Leeuwarden  is  a patriotic  society  know  as  the  ‘‘  Vere- 
enigung  tot  bevordering  van  vreemdelingenverkeer,”  whose 
ambition,  as  their  title  suggests,  is  to  draw  strangers  to  the 
town ; and  as  part  of  their  campaign  they  have  issued  a 


246 


^FRISIAN  POETRY 


little  guide  to  Leeuwarden  and  its  environs,  in  English.  It 
is  an  excellent  book.  The  preface  begins  thus : — 

The  travelling-season,  which  causes  thousands  of  people  to  leave  their 
homes  and  hearths,  has  come  round  again.  Throughout  Europe  silk  strings 
are  being  prepared  to  catch  human  birds  of  passage  with.  Is  Frisia — Old 
Frisia — to  lag  behind  ? Impossible  1 Natural  condition  as  well  as  popula- 
tion and  history  give  to  our  province  a right  to  claim  a little  attention  and 
to  be  a hostess.  We  beg  to  refer  to  the  words  of  a Frenchman,  M.  Malte- 
Brun  (quoted  by  one  of  the  best  Frisian  authors),  the  English  translation 
of  which  words  runs  as  follows : “ Eighteen  centuries  saw  the  river  Rhine 
change  its  course,  and  the  Ocean  swallow  its  shores,  but  the  Frisian  nation 
has  remained  unchanged,  and  from  an  historical  point  of  view  deserves 
being  taken  an  interest  in  by  the  descendants  of  the  Franks  as  well  as  of 
the  Anglo-Saxons  and  the  Scandinavians.” 

It  is  not  often  to  a Frenchman  that  the  author  of  this 
guide  has  to  go  for  his  purple  patches.  He  is  capable  of 
producing  them  himself,  and  there  seems  also  always  to  be 
a Frisian  poet  who  has  said  the  right  thing.  Thus  (of 
Leeuwarden) : ^Tt  is  surrounded  by  splendid  fertile  meadows, 
to  all  of  which,  though  especially  to  those  lying  near  the 
roads  to  Marssum  and  Stiens,  may  be  applied  the  words  of 
the  Frisian  poet  Dr.  E.  Halbertsma : — 

‘ Sjen  non  dat  Idn,  hwer  jy  op  geane^ 

Dat  ophelle  is  ut  guile  se  ; 

Hwer  hinne  hrzisender  Idnsdouwen, 

Oerspriede  mei  sok  hearlik  fi  ? 

(‘  Behold  the  soil  you  are  walking  on. 

The  soil,  snatched  from  the  waves ; 

Where  are  more  luxurious  meadows. 

Where  do  you  find  such  cattle  ? ’) 

The  farmer,  living  in  the  midst  of  this  fine  natural 
scenery,  is  to  ibe  envied  indeed  : if  the  struggle  for  life 
does  not  weigh  too  heavily  upon  him,  his  must  be  a life 
happier  than  that  of  thousands  of  other  people.  Living 
and  working  with  his  own  family  and  servants  attached  to 


FAMILY  SCENE 

JAN  STEEN 

Fro7n  the  picture  in  the  Ryks  Muse^im 


A VIRAGO 


247 


him,  he  made  the  right  choice  when  he  chose  to  breed  his 
cattle  and  improve  his  grounds  to  the  best  of  his  power. 
The  parlour- windows  look  out  on  the  fields : the  gay  sight 
they  grant  has  its  effect  on  the  mood  of  those  inside.  The 
peasant  sees  and  feels  the  beauty  of  life,  and  it  makes  him 
thankful,  and  gives  him  courage  to  struggle  and  to  work  on, 
where  necessity  requires  it.” 

I gather  from  the  account  of  Leeuwarden  that  the 
justices  of  that  city  once  knew  a crime  when  they  saw  one 
— none  quicklier.  In  1536,  for  example,  they  punished 
Jan  Koekebakken  in  a twinkling  for  the  dastardly  offence 
of  marrying  a married  woman.  This  was  his  sentence  : — 

We  command  that  the  said  Jan  Koekebakken,  prisoner,  be  conducted 
by  the  executioner  from  the  Chancery  to  Brol-bridge,  and  that  he  be  put 
into  the  pillory  there.  He  shall  remain  standing  there  for  two  hours 
with  a spindle  under  each  arm,  and  with  the  letter  in  which  he  pledged 
faith  to  the  said  Aucke  Sijbrant  hanging  from  his  neck.  He  shall 
remain  for  ever  within  the  town  of  Leeuwarden,  under  penalty  of  death 
if  he  should  leave  it. 

Done  and  pronounced  at  Leeuwarden  April  29th,  1536. 

But  the  best  part  of  the  guide-book  is  its  rapid  notes 
on  the  villages  around  Leeuwarden,  to  so  many  of  which 
are  curious  legends  attached.  At  Marssum,  close  at  hand, 
was  born  the  English  painter  of  Roman  life,  Sir  Lawrence 
Alma-Tadema.  Here  also  was  born  the  ingenious  Eisa 
Eisinga,  who  constructed  the  Franeker  planetarium  in  the 
intervals  of  wool-combing.  At  Menaldum  lived  Mrs.  Van 
Camstra  van  Haarsma,  a husband-tamer  and  eccentric,  of 
whom  a poet  wrote  : — 

She  breaks  pipe  and  glass  and  mug. 

When  he  speaks  as  suits  a man  ; 

And  instead  of  being  cross. 

He  is  gentler  than  a lamb. 

When  in  fury  glow  her  eyes, 

He  keeps  silent  , , . isn’t  he  wise  ? 


248 


PROVERBS  AND  CHARACTERS 


When  not  hen-pecking  her  husband  this  powerful  lady  was 
rearing  wild  animals  or  corresponding  with  the  Princess 
Caroline. 

At  Boxum,  was  fought,  on  17th  January,  1586,  hard 
by  the  church,  the  battle  of  Boxum,  between  the  Span- 
iards and  the  Frisians.  The  Frisians  were  defeated,  and 
many  of  them  massacred  in  the  church ; but  their  effort 
was  very  brave,  and  “ He  also  has  been  to  Boxum  ” is 
to  this  day  a phrase  applied  to  lads  of  courage.  Another 
saying,  given  to  loud  speakers,  is  “ He  has  the  voice  of  the 
Vicar  of  Boxum,”  whose  tones  in  the  pulpit  were  so  dulcet 
as  to  frighten  the  birds  from  the  roof,  and,  I hope,  sinners 
to  repentance. 

At  Jelsum  is  buried  Balthazar  Becker,  the  antagonist  of 
superstition  and  author  of  The  Enchanted  World,  Near 
by  was  Martena  Castle,  where  Alderman  Sjuck  van  Bur- 
mania  once  kept  a crowd  of  assailants  at  bay  by  standing 
over  a barrel  of  gunpowder  with  a lighted  brand  while 
he  offered  them  the  choice  of  the  explosion  or  a feast. 
Hence  the  excellent  proverb,  ‘‘You  must  either  fight  or 
drink,  said  Sjuck  ”. 

At  Berlikum  was  the  castle  of  Bauck  Poppema,  a Frisian 
lady  cast  in  an  iron  mould,  who  during  her  husband^s 
absence  in  1496  defended  the  stronghold  against  assailants 
from  Groningen.  Less  successful  than  Sjuck,  after  re- 
pelling them  thrice  she  was  overpowered  and  thrown  into 
prison.  While  there  she  produced  twins,  thus  proving  her- 
self a woman  no  less  than  a warrior.  “ When  the  people 
of  Holland  glorify  Kenau,”  says  the  proverb,  “ the  Frisians 
praise  their  Bauck.”  Kenau  we  have  met;  the  heroic 
widow  of  Haarlem  who  during  the  siege  led  a band  of  three 
hundred  women  and  repelled  the  enemy  on  the  walls  again 
and  again. 


JUFFER  LYSSE 


249 


Near  Roodkerk  is  a lake  called  the  Boompoel,  into  which 
a coach  and  four  containing  six  inside  passengers,  all  of 
them  professional  exorcists,  disappeared  and  was  never  seen 
again.  The  exorcists  had  come  to  relieve  the  village  of  the 
ghost  of  a miser,  and  we  must  presume  had  failed  to  quiet 
him.  Near  Bergum,  at  Buitenrust  farm,  is  the  scene  of 
another  tragedy  by  drowning,  for  there  died  J ufFer  Lysse. 

. This  maiden,  disregarding  too  long  her  father’s  dying 
injunction  to  build  a chapel,  was  naturally  overturned  in 
her  carriage  and  drowned.  Ever  since  has  the  wood  been 
haunted,  while  the  bind-weed,  a haunting  flower,  is  in 
these  parts  known  as  the  Juffer  Lysse  blom. 

From  these  scraps  of  old  lore — all  taken  from  the  little 
Leeuwarden  guide — it  will  be  seen  that  Friesland  is  rich 
in  romantic  traditions  and  well  worthy  the  attention  of 
any  maker  of  sagas. 


CHAPTER  XVII 


GRONINGEN  TO  ZUTPHEN 

Fresh  tea — Dutch  meals — The  Doelens — Groningen — Roman  Catholic 
priests — The  boys*  penance  — Luther  and  Erasmus  — The  peat 
country — Folk  lore — Terburg — Thomas  a Kempis — Zwolle — The 
wild  girl — Kampen — hall  of  justice  indeed — An  ideal  holiday- 
place — The  wiseacres — Urk — Sir  Philip  Sidney — Zutphen — The 
scripture  class — The  wax  works — Dutch  public  morality. 

I REMEMBER  the  Doelen  at  Groningen  for  several 
reasons,  all  of  them  thoroughly  material.  (Holland 
is,  however,  a material  country.)  First  I would  put  the 
very  sensible  custom  of  providing  every  guest  who  has 
ordered  tea  for  breakfast  with  a little  tea  caddy.  At  the 
foot  of  the  table  is  a boiling  urn  from  which  one  fills  one’s 
teapot,  and  is  thus  assured  of  tea  that  is  fresh.  So  simple 
a:nd  reasonable  a habit  ought  to  be  the  rule  rather  than 
the  exception : but  never  have  I found  it  elsewhere.  This 
surely  is  civilisation,  I said. 

The  Doelen  was  also  the  only  inn  in  Holland  where  an 
inclusive  bottle  of  claret  was  placed  before  me  on  the  table ; 
and  it  was  the  only  inn  where  I had  the  opportunity  of  eat- 
ing ptarmigan  with  stewed  apricots — a very  happy  alliance. 

Good  however  as  was  the  Groningen  dinner,  it  was  a 
Sunday  dinner  at  the  Leeuwarden  Doelen  which  remains 
in  my  memory.  This  also  is  a friendly  unspoiled  northern 

inn,  where  the  bill  of  fare  is  arranged  with  a-  nice  thought 

(^50) 


THE  DOELENS 


251 


to  the  requirements  of  the  Free  Frisian.  I kept  no  note 
of  the  meal,  but  I recollect  the  occurrence  at  one  stage  of 
plovers’  eggs  (which  the  Dutch  eat  hot,  dropping  them  into 
cold  water  for  an  instant  to  ensure  the  easy  removal  of  the 
shell),  and  at  another,  some  time  later,  of  duckling  with 
prunes. 

The  popularity  of  the  name  Doelen  as  a Dutch  sign 
might  have  a word  of  explanation.  Doelen  means  target, 
or  shooting  saloon ; and  shooting  at  the  mark  was  a very 
common  and  useful  recreation  with  the  Dutch  in  the  six- 
teenth century.  At  first  the  shooting  clubs  met  only  to 
shoot — as  in  the  case  of  the  arquebusiers  in  Rembrandt’s 
Night  Watch,”  who  are  painted  leaving  their  Doelen;  later 
they  became  more  social  and  the  accessories  of  sociability 
were  added ; and  after  a while  the  accessories  of  sociability 
crowded  out  the  shooting  altogether,  and  nothing  but  an 
inn  with  the  name  Doelen  remained  of  what  began  as  a 
rifle  gallery. 

At  Groningen,  which  is  a large  prosperous  town,  and 
the  birthplace  both  of  Joseph  Israels  and  H.  W.  Mesdag, 
cheese  and  dairy  produce  are  left  behind.  We  are  now  in 
the  grain  country.  Groningen  is  larger  than  Leeuwarden 
— it  has  nearly  seventy  thousand  inhabitants — and  its 
evening  light  seemed  to  me  even  more  beautifully  liquid. 
I sat  for  a long  time  in  a cafe  overlooking  the  gi’eat 
square,  feeding  a very  greedy  and  impertinent  terrier,  and 
alternately  watching  an  endless  game  of  billiards  and  the 
changing  hue  of  the  sky  as  day  turned  to  night  and  the 
clean  white  stars  came  out.  In  Holland  one  can  sit  very 
long  in  cafes : I had  dined  and  left  a table  of  forty  Dutch- 
men just  settling  down  to  their  wine,  at  six  o’clock,  with 
the  whole  evening  before  me. 

Groningen  takes  very  good  car.e  of  itself.  It  has  trams, 


252 


LITTLE  ROMANS 


excellent  shops  and  buildings,  a crowded  inland  harbour, 
and  a spreading  park  where  once  were  its  fortifications.  The 
mounds  in  this  park  were  the  first  hills  I had  seen  since 
Laren.  The  church  in  the  market  square  is  immense,  with 
a high  tower  of  bells  that  kept  me  awake,  but  had  none 
of  the  soothing  charm  of  Long  John  at  Middelburg,  whose 
praises  it  will  soon  be  my  privilege  to  sound.  The  only 
rich  thing  in  the  whitewashed  vastnesses  of  the  church  is 
the  organ,  built  more  than  four  hundred  years  ago  by 
Rudolph  Agricola  of  this  province.  I did  not  hear  it. 

At  Groningen  Roman  Catholic  priests  become  noticeable 
— so  different  in  their  stylish  coats,  square  hats  and  canes, 
from  the  blue-chinned  kindly  slovens  that  one  meets  in  the 
Latin  countries.  (In  the  train  near  Nymwegeii,  however, 
where  the  priests  wear  beavers,  I travelled  with  a humorous 
old  voluptuary  who  took  snuff  at  every  station  and  was  as 
threadbare  as  one  likes  a priest  to  be.)  Looking  into  the 
new  Roman  Catholic  church  at  Groningen  I found  a little 
company  of  restless  boys,  all  eyes,  from  whom  at  regular 
intervals  were  detached  a reluctant  and  perfunctory  couple 
to  do  the  Stations  of  the  Cross.  I came  as  something  like 
a godsend  to  those  that  remained,  who  had  no  one  to  super- 
vise them ; and  feeling  it  as  a mission  I stayed  resolutely  in 
the  church  long  after  I was  tired  of  it,  writing  a little  and 
examining  the  pictures  by  Hendriex,  a modern  painter  too 
much  after  the  manner  of  the  Christmas  supplement — 
studied  the  while  by  this  band  of  scrutinising  penitents.  I 
hope  I was  as  interesting  and  beguiling  as  I tried  to  be. 
And  all  the  time,  exactly  opposite  the  Roman  Catholic 
church,  was  reposing  in  the  library  of  the  University  no 
less  a treasure  than  the  New  Testament  of  Erasmus,  with 
marginal  notes  by  Martin  Luther.  There  it  lay,  that 
afternoon,  within  call,  while  the  weary  boys  pattered  from 


PEAT 


253 


one  Station  of  the  Cross  to  another,  little  recking  the  part 
played  by  their  country  in  sapping  the  power  of  the  faith 
they  themselves  were  fostering,  and  knowing  nothing  of 
the  ironical  contiguity  of  Luther’s  comments. 

By  leaving  Groningen  very  early  in  the  morning  I 
gained  another  proof  of  the  impossibility  of  rising  before 
the  Dutch.  In  England  one  can  easily  be  the  first  down 
in  any  hotel — save  for  a sleepy  boots  or  waiter.  Not  so  in 
Holland.  It  was  so  early  that  I am  able  to  say  nothing  of 
the  country  between  Groningen  and  Meppel,  the  capital  of 
the  peat  trade,  save  that  it  was  peaty : heather  and  fir 
trees,  shallow  lakes  and  men  cutting  peat,  as  far  as  eye 
could  reach  on  either  side. 

Here  in  the  peat  country  I might  quote  a very  pretty 
Dutch  proverb  : There  is  no  fuel  more  entertaining  than 

wet  wood  and  frozen  peat : the  wood  sings  and  the  peat 
listens  The  Dutch  have  no  lack  of  folk  lore,  but  the 
casual  visitor  has  not  the  opportunity  of  collecting  very 
much.  When  there  is  too  much  salt  in  the  dish  they  say 
that  the  cook  is  in  love.  When  a three-cornered  piece  of 
peat  is  observed  in  the  fire,  a visitor  is  coming.  When 
bread  has  large  holes  in  it,  the  baker  is  said  to  have  pur- 
sued his  wife  through  the  loaf.  When  a wedding  morning 
is  rainy,  it  is  because  the  bride  has  forgotten  to  feed  the 
cat. 

I tarried  awhile  at  Zwolle  on  the  Yssel  (a  branch  of  the 
Rhine),  because  at  Zwolle  was  bom  in  1617  Gerard  Terburg, 
one  of  the  greatest  of  Dutch  painters,  of  whom  I have  spoken 
in  the  chapter  on  Amsterdam’s  pictures.  Of  his  life  we 
know  very  little ; but  he  travelled  to  Spain  (where  he  was 
knighted  and  where  he  learned  not  a little  of  use  in  his 
art),  and  also  certainly  to  France,  and  possibly  to  England. 
A.t  Haarlem,  where  he  lived  for  a while,  he  worked  in  Frans 


254 


ZWOLLE 


Hals’  studio,  and  then  he  settled  down  at  Deventer,  a few 
miles  south  of  Zwolle,  married,  and  became  in  time  Burgo- 
master of  the  town.  He  died  at  Deventer  in  1681.  Zwolle 
has  none  of  his  pictures,  and  does  not  appear  to  value  his 
memory.  Nor  does  Deventer.  How  Terburg  looked  as 
Burgomaster  of  Deventer  is  seen  in  his  portrait  of  himself 
in  the  Mauritshuis  at  The  Hague.  It  was  not  often  that 
the  great  Dutch  painters  rose  to  civic  eminence.  Rem- 
brandt became  a bankrupt,  Frans  Hals  was  on  the  rates, 
Jan  Steen  drank  all  his  earnings.  Of  all  Terburg’s  great 
contemporaries  Gerard  Dou  seems  to  have  had  most  sense 
of  prosperity  and  position;  but  his  interests  were  wholly 
in  his  art. 

Terburg  is  not  the  only  famous  name  at  Zwolle.  It  was 
at  the  monastery  on  the  Agneteberg,  three  miles  away,  that 
the  author  of  The  Imitation  of  Christ  lived  for  more  than 
sixty  years  and  wrote  his  deathless  book. 

I roamed  through  Zwolle’s  streets  for  some  time.  It 
is  a bright  town,  with  a more  European  air  than  many 
in  Holland,  agreeable  drives  and  gardens,  where  (as  at 
Groningen)  were  once  fortifications,  and  a very  fine  old 
gateway  called  the  Saxenpoort,  with  four  towers  and  five 
spires  and  very  pretty  window  shutters  in  white  and  blue. 
The  Groote  Kerk  is  of  unusual  interest.  It  is  five  hundred 
years  old  and  famous  for  its  very  elaborate  pulpit — a little 
cathedral  in  itself — and  an  organ.  Zwolle  also  has  an 
ancient  church  which  retains  its  original  religion — the 
church  of  Notre  Dame,  with  a crucifix  curiously  protected 
by  iron  bars.  I looked  into  the  stadhuis  to  see  a Gothic 
council  room  ; and  smoked  meditatively  among  the  stalls 
of  a little  flower  market,  wondering  why  some  of  the 
costumes  of  Holland  are  so  charming  and  others  so  un- 
pleasing. A few  dear  old  women  in  lace  caps  were  present, 


KAMPEN 


255 


but  there  were  also  younger  women  who  had  made  their 
pretty  heads  ugly  with  their  decorations. 

At  Zwolle  M.  Havard  was  disappointed  to  find  no  wax 
figure  of  the  famous  wild  girl  found  in  the  Cranenburg 
Forest  in  1718.  She  roamed  its  recesses  almost  naked  for 
some  time,  eluding  all  capture,  but  was  at  last  taken  with 
nets  and  conveyed  to  Zwolle.  As  she  could  not  be  under- 
stood, an  account  of  her  was  circulated  widely,  and  at 
length  a woman  in  Antwerp  who  had  lost  a daughter  in 
1702  heard  of  her,  and  on  reaching  Zwolle  immediately 
recognised  her  as  her  child.  The  magistrates,  accepting 
the  story,  handed  the  girl  to  her  affectionate  parent,  who 
at  once  set  about  exhibiting  her  throughout  the  country 
at  a great  profit.  The  story  illustrates  either  the  credulity 
of  magistrates  or  the  practical  character  of  some  varieties 
of  maternal  love. 

Kampen,  nearer  the  mouth  of  the  Yssel,  close  to  Zwolle, 
is  exceedingly  well  worth  visiting.  The  two  towns  are  very 
different : Zwolle  is  patrician,  Kampen  plebeian ; Zwolle 
suggests  wealth  and  light-heartedness;  at  Kampen  there 
is  a large  fishing  population  and  no  one  seems  to  be 
wealthy.  Indeed,  being  without  municipal  rates,  it  is,  I 
am  told,  a refuge  of  the  needy.  Any  old  town  that  is  on 
a river,  and  that  river  a mouth  of  the  Rhine,  is  good 
enough  for  me;  but  when  it  is  also  a treasure  house  of 
mediaeval  architecture  one’s  cup  is  full.  And  Kampen  dias 
many  treasures : beautiful  fourteenth-century  gateways, 
narrow  quaint  streets,  a cheerful  isolated  campanile,  a fine 
church,  and  the  greater  portion  of  an  odd  but  wholly  de- 
lightful stadhuis  in  red  brick  and  white  stone,  with  a gay 
little  crooked  bell-tower  and  statues  of  great  men  and 
great  qualities  on  its  facade. 

For  one  possession  | alone,  among  many,  the  stadhuis 


256 


OLD  OAK 


must  \iie  visited — its  halls  of  justice,  veritable  paradises  of 
old  oak,  with  a very  wonderful  fireplace.  The  halls  are 
really  one,  divided  by  a screen ; in  one  half,  the  council 
room,  sat  the  judges,  in  the  other  the  advocates,  and,  I 
suppose,  the  public.  The  advocates  addressed  the  screen, 
on  the  other  side  of  which  sat  Fate,  in  the  persons  of  the 
municipal  fathers,  enthroned  in  oak  seats  of  unsurpassed 
gravity  and  dignity,  amid  all  the  sombre  insignia  of  their 
office.  The  chimney-piece  is  an  imposing  monument  of  ab- 
stract Justice — no  more  elaborate  one  can  exist.  Solomon 
is  there,  directing  the  distribution  of  the  baby ; Faith  and 
Truth,  Law,  Religion  and  Charity  are  there  also.  Never 
can  a tribunal  have  had  a more  appropriate  setting  than 
at  Kampen.  The  Rennes  judiciaries  should  have  sat  there, 
to  lend  further  ironical  point  to  their  decision. 

The  stadhuis  has  other  possessions  interesting  to  anti- 
quaries : valuable  documents,  gold  and  silver  work,  the 
metal  and  leather  squirts  through  which  boiling  oil  was 
projected  at  the  enemies  of  the  town ; while  an  iron  cage 
for  criminals,  similar,  I imagine,  to  that  in  which  Jan  of 
Leyden  was  exhibited,  hangs  outside. 

Travellers  visit  Kampen  pre-eminently  to  see  the  stadhuis 
chimney-piece  and  oak,  but  the  whole  town  is  a museuni. 
I wish  now  that  I had  arranged  to  be  longer  there ; but 
unaware  of  Kampen’s  charms  I allowed  but  a short  time 
both  for  Zwolle  and  itself.  On  my  next  visit  to  Holland 
Kampen  shall  be  my  headquarters  for  some  days.  Amid  the 
restfulness  of  mediaevalism,  the  friendliness  of  the  fishing 
folk  and  the  breezes  of  the  Zuyder  Zee,  one  should  do  well. 
A boat  from  Amsterdam  to  Kampen  sails  every  morning. 

Despite  its  Judgment  Hall  and  its  other  merits  Kampen 
is  the  Dutch  Gotham.  Any  foolishly  naive  speech  or 
action  is  attributed  to  Kampen’s  wise  men.  In  one  story 


KAM  PEN 


SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY 


257 


the  fathers  of  the  town  place  the  municipal  sundial  under 
cover  to  protect  it  from  the  rays  of  the  sun.  In  another 
they  meet  together  to  deliberate  on  the  failure  of  the 
water  pipes  and  fire  engines  during  a fire,  and  pass  a rule 
that  on  the  evening  preceding  a fire  ” all  hydrants  and 
engines  must  be  overhauled.  M.  Havard  gives  ali^o  the 
following  instance  of  Kampen  sagacity.  A public  func- 
tionary was  explaining  the  financial  state  of  the  town. 
He  asserted  that  one  of  the  principal  profits  arose  from 
the  tolls  exacted  on  the  entrance  of  goods  into  the  town. 
‘^Each  gate,”  said  the  ingenious  advocate,  ‘‘has  brought 
in  ten  million  florins  this  year ; that  is  to  say,  with  seven 
gates  we  have  gained  seventy  million  florins.  This  is  a 
most  important  fact.  I therefore  propose  that  the  council 
double  the  number  of  gates,  and  in  this  way  we  shall  in 
future  considerably  augment  our  funds.”  The  Irishman 
who,  when  asked  to  buy  a stove  that  would  save  half  his 
fuel,  replied  that  he  would  have  two  and  save  it  all,  was 
of  the  same  school  of  logic. 

From  Kampen  the  island  of  Urk  may  be  visited : but  I 
have  not  been  there.  In  1787,  I have  read  somewhere, 
the  inhabitants  of  Urk  decided  to  form  a club  in  which 
to  practise  military  exercises  and  the  use  of  arms.  When 
the  club  was  formed  it  had  but  one  member.  Hence  a 
Dutch  saying — “ It  is  the  Urk  club”. 

Nor  did  I stay  at  Deventer,  but  hastened  on  to  Zutphen 
with  my  thoughts  straying  all  the  time  to  the  grey  walls  - 
of  Penshurst  castle  in  Kent  and  its  long  galleries  filled 
with  memories  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney — the  gentle  knight 
who  was  a boy  there,  and  who  died  at  Arnheim  of  a wound 
which  he  received  in  the  siege  of  Zutphen  three  and  a 
quarter  centuries  ago. 

At  Naarden  we  have  seen  how  terrible  was  the  destroy- 
U 


258 


MORE  SPANISH  CRUELTY 


ing  power  of  the  Spaniards.  It  was  at  Zutphen  that  they 
had  first  given  rein  to  their  lust  for  blood.  When  Zutphen 
was  taken  by  Don  Frederic  in  1572,  at  the  beginning  of 
the  war,  Motley  tells  us  that  Alva  sent  orders  to  his  son  to 
leave  not  a single  man  alive  in  the  city^  and  to  burn  every 
house  to  the  ground.  The  Duke’s  command  was  almost 
literally  obeyed.  Don  Frederic  entered  Zutphen,  and 
without  a moment’s  warning  put  the  whole  garrison  to 
the  sword.  The  citizens  next  fell  a defenceless  prey ; 
some  being  stabbed  in  the  streets,  some  hanged  on  the 
trees  which  decorated  the  city,  some  stripped  stark  naked, 
and  turned  out  into  the  fields  to  freeze  to  death  in  the 
wintry  night.  As  the  work  of  death  became  too  fatiguing 
for  the  butchers,  five  hundred  innocent  burghers  were  tied 
two  and  two,  back  to  back,  and  drowned  like  dogs  in  the 
river  Yssel.  A few  stragglers  who  had  contrived  to  elude 
pursuit  at  first,  were  afterwards  taken  from  their  hiding- 
places,  and  hung  upon  the  gallows  by  the  feet^  some  of 
which  victims  suffered  four  days  and  nights  of  agony 
before  death  came  to  their  relief.” 

On  the  day  that  I was  in  Zutphen  it  was  the  quietest 
town  I had  found  in  all  Holland — not  excepting  Mon- 
nickendam  between  the  arrival  of  the  steam-trams.  The 
clean  bright  streets  were  empty  and  still : another  massacre 
almost  might  just  have  occurred.  I had  Zutphen  to  myself. 
I could  not  even  find  the  koster  to  show  me  the  church ; 
and  it  was  in  trying  door  after  door  as  I walked  round  it 
that  I came  upon  the  only  sign  of  life  in  the  place.  For 
one  handle  at  last  yielding  I found  myself  instantly  in  a 
small  chapel  filled  with  many  young  women  engaged  in  a 
scripture  class.  The  sudden  irruption  of  an  embarrassed 
and  I imagine  somewhat  grotesque  foreigner  seems  to  have 
been  exactly  what  every  member  of  this  little  congregation 


WAX  WORKS 


259 


was  most  desiring,  and  I never  heard  a merrier  or  more 
spontaneous  burst  of  laughter.  I stood  not  upon  the  order 
of  my  going. 

The  church  is  vast  and  very  quiet  and  restful,  with  a 
large  plain  window  of  green  glass  that  increases  its  cool 
freshness;  while  the  young  leaves  of  a chestnut  close  to 
another  window  add  to  this  effect.  The  koster  coming  at 
last,  I was  shown  the  ancient  chained  library  in  the  chapter 
house,  and  he  enlarged  upon  the  beauties  of  a metal  font. 
Wandering  out  again  into  this  city  of  silence  I found  in  the 
square  by  the  church  an  exhibition  of  wax  works  which  was 
to  be  opened  at  four  o’clock.  Making  a note  to  return 
to  it  at  that  hour,  I sought  the  river,  where  the  timber 
is  floated  down  from  the  German  forests,  and  lost  my- 
self among  peat  barges  and  other  craft,  and  walked  some 
miles  in  and  about  Zutphen,  and  a little  way  down  a 
trickling  stream  whence  the  view  of  the  city  is  very  beauti- 
ful ; and  by-and-by  found  myself  by  the  church  and  the 
wax  works  again,  in  a town  that  since  my  absence  had 
quite  filled  with  bustling  people  — four  o’clock  having 
struck  and  the  Princess  of  the  Day  Dream  having  (I  sup- 
pose) been  kissed.  The  change  was  astonishing. 

Wax  works  always  make  me  uncomfortable,  and  these 
were  no  exception ; but  the  good  folk  of  Zutphen  found 
them  absorbing.  The  murderers  stood  alone,  staring  with 
that  fixity  which  only  a wax  assassin  can  compass;  but 
for  the  most  part  the  figures  were  arranged  in  groups  with 
dramatic  intent.  Here  was  a confessional ; there  a fare- 
well between  lovers ; here  a wounded  Boer  meeting  his  death 
at  the  bayonet  of  an  English  dastard ; there  a Queen 
Eleanor  sucking  poison  from  her  husband’s  arm.  A series 
of  illuminated  scenes  of  rapine  and  disaster  might  be 
studied  through  magnifying  glasses.  The  presence  of  a 


260 


PICTURE  POST  CARDS 


wax  bust  of  Zola  was  due,  I imagine,  less  to  his  illustrious 
career  than  to  the  untoward  circumstances  of  his  death. 
The  usual  Sleeping  Beauty  heaved  her  breast  punctually 
in  the  centre  of  the  tent. 

In  one  point  only  did  the  exhibition  differ  from  the  wax 
works  of  the  French  and  Italian  fairs — it  was  undeviatingly 
decent.  There  were  no  jokes,  and  no  physiological  models. 
But  the  Dutch,  I should  conjecture,  are  not  morbid.  They 
have  their  coarse  fun,  laugh,  and  get  back  to  business 
again.  Judged  by  that  new  short-cut  to  a nation’s  moral 
tone,  the  picture  postcard,  the  Dutch  are  quite  sound. 
There  is  a shop  in  the  high-spirited  Nes  Straat  at  Amster- 
dam where  a certain  pictorial  ebullience  has  play,  but  I 
saw  none  other  of  the  countless  be-postcarded  windows  in  all 
Holland  that  should  cause  a serious  blush  on  any  cheek ; 
while  the  Nes  Straat  specimens  were  fundamentally  sound. 
Rabelaisian  rather  than  Armand-Sylvestrian,  not  vicious 
but  merely  vulgar. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 


ARNHEIM  TO  BERGEN-OP-ZOOM 

Arnheim  the  Joyous — A wood  walk — Tesselschade  Visscher  and  the 
Chambers  of  Rhetoric — Epigrams — Poet  friends — The  nightingale — 
An  Arnheim  adventure — Ten  years  at  one  book — Dutch  and  Latin — 
Dutch  and  French — A French  story — Dutch  and  English — The 
English  Schole-Master — Master  and  scholar — A nervous  catechism 
— Avoiding  the  birch — A riot  of  courtesy — A bill  of  lading — Dutch 
proverbs — The  Rhine  and  its  mouths — Nymwegen — Lady  Mary 
Wortley  Montagu  again  — Painted  shutters  — The  Valkhof — 
Hertogenbosch — Brothers  at  Bommel — The  hero  of  Breda — Two 
beautiful  tombs — Bergen-op-Zoom — Messrs.  Grimston  and  Red- 
head— Tholen — The  Dutch  feminine  countenance. 

At  Arnheim  we  come  to  a totally  new  Holland.  The 
Maliebaan  and  the  park  at  Utrecht,  with  their 
spacious  residences,  had  prepared  us  a little  for  Arnheim’s 
wooded  retirement ; but  not  completely.  Rotterdam  is 
given  to  shipping ; The  Hague  makes  laws  and  fashions ; 
Leyden  and  Utrecht  teach ; Amsterdam  makes  money.  It 
is  at  Arnheim  that  the  retired  merchant  and  the  returned 
colonist  set  up  their  home.  It  is  the  richest  residential 
city  in  the  country.  Arnheim  the  Joyous  was  its  old  name. 
Arnheim  the  Comfortable  it  might  now  be  styled. 

It  is  the  least  Dutch  of  Dutch  towns  : the  Rhine  brings 
a bosky  beauty  to  it,  German  in  character  and  untamed  by 
Dutch  restraining  hands.  The  Dutch  Switzerland  the 
country  hereabout  is  called.  Arnheim  recalls  Richmond 

(261) 


262 


THE  NIGHTINGALE 


too,  for  it  has  a Richmond  Hill — a terrace-road  above  a 
shaggy  precipice  overlooking  the  river. 

I walked  in  the  early  morning  to  Klarenbeck,  up  and 
down  in  a vast  wood,  and  at  a point  of  vantage  called  the 
Steenen  Tafel  looked  down  on  the  Rhine  valley.  Nothing 
could  be  less  like  the  Holland  of  the  earlier  days  of  my 
wanderings — nothing,  that  is,  that  was  around  me,  but 
with  the  farther  bank  of  the  river  the  flatness  instantly 
begins  and  continues  as  far  as  one  can  see  in  the  north. 

It  was  a very  beautiful  morning  in  May,  and  as  I rested 
now  and  then  among  the  resinous  pines  I was  conscious  of 
being  traitorous  to  England  in  wandering  here  at  all.  No 
one  ought  to  be  out  of  England  in  April  and  May.  At 
one  point  I met  a squirrel — just  such  a nimble  short- 
tempered  squirrel  as  those  which  scold  and  hide  in  the  top 
branches  of  the  fir  trees  near  my  own  home  in  Kent — and 
my  sense  of  guilt  increased  ; but  when,  on  my  way  back, 
in  a garden  near  Arnheim  I heard  a nightingale,  the 
treachery  was  complete. 

And  this  reminds  me  that  the  best  poem  of  the  most 
charming  figure  in  Dutch  literature — Tesselschade  Visscher 
— is  about  the  nightingale.  The  story  of  this  poetess  and 
her  friends  belongs  more  properly  to  Amsterdam,  or  to 
Alkmaar,  but  it  may  as  well  be  told  here  while  the  Arnheim 
nightingale — the  only  nightingale  that  I heard  in  Holland 
— is  plaining  and  exulting. 

Tesselschade  was  the  daughter  of  the  poet  and  rhetorician 
Roemer  Visscher.  She  was  born  on  25th  March,  1594, 
and  earned  her  curious  name  from  the  circumstance  that 
on  the  same  day  her  father  was  wrecked  off*  Texel.  In 
honour  of  his  rescue  he  named  his  daughter  Tesselschade, 
or  Texel  wreck,  thereby,  I think,  eternally  impairing  his 
right  to  be  considered  a true  poet.  As  a matter  of  fact 


THE  RHETORICIANS 


263 


he  was  rather  an  epigrammatist  than  a poet,  his  ambition 
being  to  be  known  as  the  Dutch  Martial.  Here  is  a taste 
of  his  Martial  manner  : — 

Jan  sorrows — sorrows  far  too  much  : ’tis  true 

A sad  affliction  hath  distressed  his  life ; — 

Mourns  he  that  death  hath  ta’en  his  children  two  ? 

O no  1 he  mourns  that  death  hath  left  his  wife. 

I have  said  that  Visscher  was  a rhetorician.  The  word 
perhaps  needs  a little  explanation,  for  it  means  more  than 
would  appear.  In  those  days  rhetoric  was  a living  cult 
in  the  Netherlands : Dutchmen  and  Flemings  played  at 
rhetoric  with  some  of  the  enthusiasm  that  we  keep  for 
cricket  and  sport.  Every  town  of  any  importance  had  its 
Chamber  of  Rhetoric.  ‘‘These  Chambers,’^  says  Long- 
fellow in  his  Poets  and  Poetry  of  Europe^  “ were  to  Holland, 
in  the  fifteenth  century,  what  the  Guilds  of  the  Meister- 
singers  were  to  Germany,  and  were  numerous  throughout 
the  Netherlands.  Brussels  could  boast  of  five ; Antwerp 
of  four ; Louvain  of  three ; and  Ghent,  Bruges,  Malines, 
Middelburg,  Gouda,  Haarlem,  and  Amsterdam  of  at  least 
one.  Each  Chamber  had  its  coat  of  arms  and  its  standard, 
and  the  directors  bore  the  title  of  Princes  and  Deans.  At 
times  they  gave  public  representations  of  poetic  dialogues 
and  stage-plays,  called  Spelen  van  Sinne^  or  Moralities. 
Like  the  Meistersingers,  they  gave  singular  titles  to  their 
songs  and  metres.  A verse  was  called  a Regel;  a strophe, 
a Clause  ; and  a burden  or  refrain,  a Stockregeh  If  a half- 
verse  closed  as  a strophe,  it  was  a Steert^  or  tail.  Tafel- 
spelen^  and  Spelen  van  Sinne^  were  the  titles  of  the  dramatic 
exhibitions ; and  the  rhymed  invitation  to  these  was  called 
a Charte^  or  Uitroep  (outcry).  Ketendichten  (chain-poems) 
are  short  poems  in  which  the  last  word  of  each  line  rhymes 
with  the  first  of  the  line  following;  Scaekberd  (checker- 


264 


FANTASTIC  RHYMING 


bourd),  a poem  of  sixty-four  lines,  so  rhymed,  that  in  every 
direction  it  forms  a strophe  of  eight  lines ; and  Dohhel-steert 
(double-tail),  a poem  in  which  a double  rhyme  closes  each 
line.^ 

The  example  of  Flanders  was  speedily  followed  by  Zee- 
land  and  Holland.  In  1430,  there  was  a Chamber  at 
Middelburg  ; in  1433,  at  Vlaardingen  ; in  1434,  at  Nieuw- 
kerk ; and  in  1437,  at  Gouda.  Even  insignificant  Dutch 
villages  had  their  Chambers.  Among  others,  one  was 
founded  in  the  Lier,  in  the  year  1480.  In  the  remaining 
provinces  they  met  with  less  encouragement.  They  existed, 
however,  at  Utrecht,  Amersfoort,  Leeuwarden,  and  Hasselt. 
The  purity  of  the  language  was  completely  undermined  by 
the  rhyming  self-called  Rhetoricians,  and  their  abandoned 
courses  brought  poetry  itself  into  disrepute.  All  distinction 
of  genders  was  nearly  abandoned ; the  original  abundance 
of  words  ran  waste ; and  that  which  was  left  became  com- 
pletely overwhelmed  by  a torrent  of  barbarous  terms.’’ 
Wagenaer,  in  his  ‘‘Description  of  Amsterdam,”  gives 
a copy  of  a painter’s  bill  for  work  done  for  a rhetorician’s 
performance  at  the  play-house  in  the  town  of  Alkmaar,  of 
which  the  following  is  a translation  : — 

“ Imprimis,  made  for  the  Clerks  a Hell ; 

Item,  the  Pavilion  of  Satan  ; 

Item,  two  pairs  of  Devil’s-breeches  ; 

Item,  a Shield  for  the  Christian  Knight ; 

1 “ With  the  Rederijkern,”  Longfellow  adds,  “ Hood’s  amusing  ‘ Noc- 
turnal Sketch  ’ would  have  been  a Driedobbelsteert,  or  a poem  with  three 
tails : — 

Even  is  come ; and  from  the  dark  park,  hark, 

The  signal  of  the  setting  sun,  one  gun  ! 

And  six  is  sounding  from  the  chime,  prime  time 
To  go  and  see  the  Drury-Lane  Dane  slain. 

Anon  Night  comes,  and  with  her  wings  brings  things 
Such  as  with  his  poetic  tongue  Young  sung.” 


ARNHEIM 


DUTCH  POETS 


265 


Item,  have  painted  the  Devils  whenever  they  played ; 

Item,  some  Arrows  and  other  small  matters. 

Sum  total ; worth  in  all  xii,  guilders. 

“ Jaques  Mol. 

“ Paid,  October  viii.,  95  [1495].” 

Among  the  Dutch  pictures  at  the  Louvre  is  an  anony- 
mous work  representing  the  Committee  of  a Chamber  of 
Rhetoric. 

Roemer  Visscher,  the  father  of  the  poetess,  was  a lead- 
ing rhetorician  at  Amsterdam,  and  the  president  of  the 
Eglantine  Chamber  of  the  Brother’s  Blossoming  in  Love 
(as  he  and  his  fellow-rhetoricians  called  themselves).  None 
the  less,  he  was  a sensible  and  clever  man,  and  he  brought 
up  his  three  daughters  very  wisely.  He  did  not  make 
them  blue  stockings,  but  saw  that  they  acquired  comely 
and  useful  arts  and  crafts,  and  he  rendered  them  unique 
by  teaching  them  to  swim  in  the  canal  that  ran  through 
his  garden.  He  also  was  enabled  to  ensure  for  them  the 
company  of  the  best  poetical  intellects  of  the  time — 
Vondel  and  Brederoo,  Spiegel,  Hooft  and  Huyghens. 

Of  these  the  greatest  was  Joost  van  den  Vondel,  a neigh- 
bour of  Visscher’s  in  Amsterdam,  the  author  of  “ Lucifer,” 
a poem  from  which  it  has  been  suggested  that  Milton 
borrowed.  Like  Izaak  Walton  Vondel  combined  haber- 
dashery with  literature.  Spiegel  was  a wealthy  patron  of 
the  arts,  and  a president,  with  Visscher,  of  the  Eglantine 
Chamber  with  the  painfully  sentimental  name.  Constantin 
Huyghens  wrote  light  verse  with  intricate  metres,  and  an 
occasional  epigram.  Here  is  one  : — 

ON  PETER’S  POETRY. 

When  Peter  condescends  to  write. 

His  verse  deserves  to  see  the  light. 

If  any  further  you  inquire, 

I mean — the  candle  or  the  fire. 


266 


ANNA  VISSCHER 


Also  a practical  statesman,  it  was  to  Huyghens  that 
Holland  owes  the  beautiful  old  road  from  The  Hague  to 
Scheveningen  in  which  Jacob  Cats  built  his  house. 

Among  these  friends  Anna  and  Tesselschade  grew  into 
cultured  women  of  quick  and  sympathetic  intellect.  Both 
wrote  poetry,  but  Tesselschade’s  is  superior  to  her  sister’s. 
Among  Anna’s  early  work  were  some  additions  to  a new 
edition  of  her  father’s  Zinne-Poppen^  one  of  her  poems 
running  thus  in  the  translation  by  Mr.  Edmund  Gosse 
in  the  very  pleasant  essay  on  Tesselschade  in  his  Studies 
in  the  Literature  of  Northern  Europe : — 

A wife  that  sings  and  pipes  all  day, 

And  never  puts  her  lute  away, 

No  service  to  her  hand  finds  she  ; 

Fie,  fie  I for  this  is  vanity ! 

But  is  it  not  a heavenly  sight 
To  see  a woman  take  delight 
With  song  or  string  her  husband  dear. 

When  daily  work  is  done,  to  cheer  ? 

Misuse  may  turn  the  sweetest  sweet 
To  loathsome  wormwood,  I repeat ; 

Yea,  wholesome  medicine,  full  of  grace. 

May  prove  a poison — out  of  place. 

They  who  on  thoughts  eternal  rest. 

With  earthly  pleasures  may  be  blest ; 

Since  they  know  well  these  shadows  | gay. 

Like  wind  and  smoke,  will  pass  away. 

Tesselschade,  who  was  much  loved  hy  her  poet  friends, 
disappointed  them  all  by  marrying  a dull  sailor  of  Alkmaar 
named  Albert  Krombalgh.  Settling  down  at  Alkmaar, 
she  continued  her  intercourse  with  her  old  companions, 
and  some  new  ones,  by  letter.  Among  her  new  friends 
were  Barlaeus,  or  Van  Baerle,  the  first  Latinist  of  the  day, 


TESSELSCHADE’S  PQEM 


267 


and  Jacob  Cats.  When  her  married  life  was  cut  short 
some  few  years  later,  Barlaeus  proposed  to  the  young 
widow ; but  it  was  in  vain,  as  she  informed  him  by  quoting 
from  Cats  these  lines  : — 

When  a valved  shell  of  ocean 
Breaks  one  side  or  loses  one, 

Though  you  seek  with  all  devotion 
You  can  ne’er  the  loss  atone, 

Never  make  again  the  edges 
Bite  together,  tooth  for  tooth, 

And,  just  so,  old  love  alleges 
Nought  is  like  the  heart’s  first  troth. 

These  are  Tesselschade's  lines  upon  the  nightingale  in 
Mr.  Gosse’s  happy  translation  : — 

THE  WILD  SONGSTER. 

• Praise  thou  the  nightingale. 

Who  with  her  joyous  tale 
Doth  make  thy  heart  rejoice, 

Whether  a singing  plume  she  be,  or  viewless  winged  voice ; 

Whose  warblings,  sweet  and  clear. 

Ravish  the  listening  ear 
With  joy,  as  upward  float 
The  throbbing  liquid  trills  of  her  enchanted  throat ; 

Whose  accents  pure  and  ripe 
Sound  like  an  organ  pipe, 

That  holdeth  divers  songs. 

And  with  one  tongue  alone  sings  like  a score  of  tongues. 

The  rise  and  fall  again 
In  clear  and  lovely  strain 
Of  her  sweet  voice  and  shrill, 

Outclamours  with  its  songs  the  singing  springing  rill. 

A creature  whose  great  praise 
Her  rarity  displays. 

Seeing  she  only  lives 

A month  in  all  the  year  to  which  her  song  she  gives. 


268 


A PATIENT  SCHOLAR 


But  this  thing  sets  the  crown 
Upon  her  high  renown, 

That  such  a little  bird  as  she 
Can  harbour  such  a strength  of  clamorous  harmony. 

Al'nheim  presents  after  dinner  the  usual  scene  of  con- 
tented movement.  The  people  throng  the  principal  streets, 
and  every  one  seems  happy  and  placid.  The  great  concert 
hall,  Musis  Sacrum,  had  not  yet  begun  its  season  when 
I was  there,  and  the  only  spectacle  which  the  town  could 
muster  was  an  exhibition  of  strength  by  two  oversized  boys, 
which  I avoided. 

At  Arnheim,  I should  relate,  an  odd  thing  happened  to 
my  companion.  When  she  was  there  last,  in  1894,  she 
had  need  to  obtain  linseed  for  a poultice,  and  visited  a 
chemist  for  the  purpose.  He  was  an  old  man,  and  she 
found  him  sitting  in  the  window  studying  his  English 
grammar.  How  long  his  study  had  lasted  I have  no 
notion,  but  he  knew  less  of  our  tongue  than  she  of  his,  and 
to  get  the  linseed  was  no  easy  matter.  Ten  years  passed 
and  recollection  of  the  Amheim  chemist  had  clean  evapor- 
ated ; but  chancing  to  look  up  as  we  walked  through  the 
town,  the  sight  of  the  old  chemist  seated  in  his  shop-window 
poring  over  a book  brought  the  whole  incident  back  to  her. 
We  stepped  to  the  window  and  stole  a glance  at  the  volume  : 
it  was  an  English  Grammar.  He  had  been  studying  it 
ever  since  the  night  of  the  linseed  poultice. 

It  was,  we  felt,  an  object-lesson  to  us,  who  during  the 
same  interval  had  taken  advantage  of  every  opportunity 
of  neglecting  the  Dutch  tongue. 

That  tongue,  however,  is  not  attractive.  Even  those 
who  have  spoken  it  to  most  purpose  do  not  always  admire 
it.  I find  that  Kasper  van  Baeiie  wrote  : “ What  then  do 
we  Netherlanders  speak  .?  Words  from  a foreign  tongue  : 


BILDERDYK 


269 


we  are  but  a collected  crowd,  of  feline  origin,  driven  by 
a strange  fatality  to  these  mouths  of  the  Rhine.  Why, 
since  the  mighty  descendants  of  Romulus  here  pitched  their 
tents,  choose  we  not  rather  the  holy  language  of  the 
Romans ! ” 

We  may  consider  Dutch  a harsh  tongue,  and  prefer 
that  all  foreigners  should  learn  English ; but  our  dislike  of 
Dutch  is  as  nothing  compared  with  Dutch  dislike  of  French 
as  expressed  in  some  verses  by  Bilderdyk  when  the  tyranny 
of  Napoleon  threatened  them  : — 

Begone,  thou  bastard-tongue ! so  base — so  broken — 

By  human  jackals  and  hyenas  spoken  ; 

Formed  of  a race  of  infidels,  and  fit 
To  laugh  at  truth — and  scepticise  in  wit ; 

What  stammering,  snivelling  sounds,  which  scarcely  dare, 

Bravely  through  nasal  channel  meet  the  ear — 

Yet  helped  by  apes’  grimaces — and  the  devil. 

Have  ruled  the  world,  and  ruled  the  world  for  evil ! 

But  French  is  now  the  second  language  that  is  taught 
in  Dutch  schools.  German  comes  first  and  English  third. 

The  Dutch  language  often  resembles  English  very 
closely;  sometimes  so  closely  as  to  be  ridiculous.  For 
example,  to  an  English  traveller  who  has  been  manoeuvr- 
ing in  vain  for  some  time  in  the  effort  to  get  at  the  value 
of  an  article,  it  comes  as  a shock  comparable  only  to  being 
run  over  by  a donkey  cart  to  discover  that  the  Dutch  for 
What  is  the  price  ? ” is  “ Wat  is  de  prijs  ? ” 

The  best  old  Dutch  phrase-book  is  The  English  Schole- 
Master^  the  copy  of  which  that  lies  before  me  was  printed 
at  Amsterdam  by  John  Bouman  in  the  year  1658.  I have 
already  quoted  a short  passage  from  it,  in  Chapter  II. 
This  is  the  full  title : — 


270 


AN  OLD  PHRASE-BOOK 


The  English  Schole^Master ; 
or 

Certaine  rules  and  helpes^  whereby 
the  natives  of  the  Netherlandes^  may 
hee^  in  a short  time^  taught  to 
read^  understand^  and  speaTce 
the  English  tongue. 

By  the  helpe  whereof  the  English  also 
may  be  better  instructed  in  the  knowledge 
of  the  Dutch  tongue^  than  by  any  voca- 
bulars^  or  other  Dutch  and  English 
books^  which  hitherto  they  have 
had^for  that  purpose. 

There  is  internal  evidence  that  the  book  was  the  work  of 
a Dutchman  rather  than  an  Englishman ; for  the  Dutch 
is  better  than  the  English.  I quote  (omitting  the  Dutch) 
part  of  one  of  the  long  dialogues  between  a master  and 
scholar  of  which  the  manual  is  largely  composed.  Much 
of  its  interest  lies  in  the  continual  imminence  of  the  rod 
and  the  skill  of  the  child  in  saving  the  situation  : — 

M.  In  the  meane  time  let  me  aske  you  one  thing  more.  Have  you  not 
bin  to-day  at  the  holy  sermon  ? 

S.  I was  there. 

M.  Who  are  your  witnesses  ? 

S.  Many  of  the  schoole-fellowes  who  saw  me  can  witnes  it. 

M.  But  some  must  be  produced. 

S.  I shall  produce  them  when  you  commaund  it. 

M.  Who  did  preach  ? 

S.  Master  N. 

M.  At  what  time  began  he  ? 

S.  At  seven  a clock. 

M.  Whence  did  he  take  his  text  ? 

S.  Out  of  the  epistle  of  Paul  to  the  Romanes. 

M.  In  what  chapter  ? 

S.  In  the  eighth. 


SAVING  HIS  SKIN 


271 


M.  Hitherto  you  have  answered  well : let  us  now  see  what  follows. 
Have  you  remembred  anything  ? 

S.  Nothing  that  I can  repeat. 

M.  Nothing  at  al  ? Bethink  (your  self)  a little,  and  take  heed  that  you 
bee  not  disturbed,  but  bee  of  good  courage. 

S.  Truly  master  I can  remember  nothing. 

M.  What,  not  one  word  ? 

S.  None  at  all. 

M.  I am  ready  to  strike  you  : what  profit  have  you  then  gotten  ? 

S.  I know  not,  otherwise  than  that  perhaps  I have  in  the  mean  time 
abstained  from  evill. 

M.  That  is  some  what  indeed,  if  it  could  but  so  be  that  you  have  kept 
your  self  wholy  from  evill. 

S.  I have  abstained  so  much  as  I was  able. 

M.  Graunt  that  it  bee  so,  yet  you  have  not  pleased  God,  seeing  it  is 
written,  depart  from  evill  and  doe  good,  but  tell  mee  (I  pray  thee)  for 
what  cause  principally  did  you  goe  thither  ? 

S.  That  I might  learne  something. 

M.  Why  have  you  not  done  so  ? 

S.  I could  not. 

M.  Could  you  not,  knave  ? yea  you  would  not,  or  truly  you  have  not 
addicted  your  self  to  it. 

S.  I am  compelled  to  confesse  it. 

M.  What  compelleth  you  ? 

S.  My  Conscience,  which  accuseth  me  before  God. 

M.  You  say  well : oh  that  it  were  from  the  heart. 

S.  Truly  I speak  it  from  myne  heart. 

M.  It  may  bee  so : but  goe  to,  what  was  the  cause  that  you  have  re- 
membred nothing  ? 

S.  My  negligence : for  I attended  not  diligently. 

M.  What  did  you  then? 

S.  Sometimes  I slept. 

M.  So  you  used  to  doe  : but  what  did  you  the  rest  of  the  time  ? 

S.  I thought  on  a thousand  fooleries,  as  children  are  wont  to  doe. 

M.  Are  you  so  very  a child,  that  you  ought  not  to  be  attentive  to 
heare  the  word  of  God  ? 

S.  If  I had  bin  attentive,  I should  have  profitted  something. 

M.  What  have  you  then  meritted  ? » 

S.  Stripes. 

M.  You  have  truly  meritted  them,  and  that  very  many. 

S.  I ingenuously  confess  it. 

M.  But  in  word  only  I think. 


272 


POLITENESS  IN  EXCESS 


S.  Yea  truly  from  myne  heart. 

M.  Possibly,  but  in  the  meane  time  prepare  to  receive  stripes. 

S.  O master  forgive  it,  I beseech  you,  I confes  I have  sinned,  but  not 
of  malice. 

M.  But  such  an  evill  negligence  comes  very  neare  wickedness  (malice). 

S.  Truly  I strive  not  against  that ; but  nevertheles  I implore  your 
clemencie  through  Jesus  Christ. 

M.  What  will  you  then  doe,  if  I shall  forgive  you  ? 

S.  I will  doe  my  dutie  henceforth,  as  I hope. 

M.  You  should  have  added  thereto,  by  God’s  helpe  : but  you  care 
little  for  that. 

S.  Yea  master,  by  God’s  help,  I will  hereafter  doe  my  duty. 

M.  Goe  to,  I pardon  you  the  fault  for  your  teares:  and  I forgive  it  you 
on  this  condition,  that  you  bee  myndful  of  your  promise. 

S.  I thank  you  most  Courteous  master. 

M.  You  shall  bee  in  very  great  favour  with  mee,  if  you  remember  your 
promise. 

S.  The  most  good  and  great  God  graunt  that  I may. 

M.  That  is  my  desire,  that  hee  would  graunt  it. 

Here  is  another  dialogue.  Whether  the  riot  of  courtesy 
displayed  in  it  was  typical  of  either  England  or  Holland 
at  that  time  I cannot  say ; but  in  neither  country  are  we 
now  so  solicitous  : — 

Salutations  at  meeting  and  parting, 

Clemens,  David, 

C.  God  save  you  David. 

D.  And  you  also  Clemens. 

C.  God  save  you  heartily. 

D.  And  you  also,  as  heartily. 

C.  How  do  you  ? 

D,  I am  well  I thank  God ; at  your  service : and  you  Clemens,  how  is 
it  with  you  ? well  ? 

C.  I am  also  in  health  : how  doth  your  father  and  mother  ? 

D.  They  are  in  good  health  praised  be  God. 

C.  How  goes  it  with  you  my  good  friend  ? 

D.  It  goeth  well  with  mee,  goes  it  but  so  well  with  you, 

C,  I wish  you  good  health. 

D.  I wish  the  same  to  you  also. 

C.  I salute  you. 


THE  LITTLE  TRINCESS 

PAULUS  MOREELSE 
Fro~n  the  picture  in  the  Ryks  Museum 


FOR  A BILL  OF  LADING 


278 


D.  And  I you  also. 

C.  Are  you  well  ? are  you  in  good  health  ? 

D.  I am  well,  indeed  I am  in  good  health,  I am  healthful,  and  in 
prosperity. 

C.  That  is  good.  That  is  well.  That  is  pleasing  to  me.  That  maketh 
mee  glad.  I love  to  hear  that.  I beseech  you  to  take  care  of  your  health. 
Preserve  your  health. 

D.  I can  tarry  no  longer  now.  I am  in  haste  to  be  gone.  I must  go. 

I have  need  of  my  time.  I cannot  abide  standing  here.  Fare  you  well. 
God  be  with  you.  God  keep  you  still.  I wish  your  health  may  continue. 

C.  And  you  also  my  loving  friend,  God  protect  you.  God  guide  you. 
God  bee  with  you.  May  it  please  you  in  my  behalf,  heartily  to  salute 
your  wife  and  children. 

D.  I will  do  your  message.  But  I pray,  commend  mee  also  to  your 
father  and  mother. 

At  the  end  of  the  book  are  some  forms,  in  Dutch  and 
English,  of  mercantile  letters,  among  them  a specimen  bill 
of  lading  of  which  I quote  a portion  as  an  example  of  the 
gracious  way  in  which  business  was  done  in  old  and  simpler 
days : — 

I,  J.  P.  of  Amsterdam,  master  under  God  of  my  ship  called  the  Saint 
Peter  at  this  present  lying  ready  in  the  river  of  Amsterdam  to  saile  with 
the  first  goode  winde  which  God  shall  give  toward  London,  where  my 
right  unlading  shal  be,  acknowledge  and  confes  that  I have  receaved 
under  the  hatches  of  my  foresaid  ship  of  you  S.  J.,  merchaunt,  to  wit: 
four  pipes  of  oile,  two  chests  of  linnen,  sixteen  buts  of  currents,  one  bale  of 
canvase,  five  bals  of  pepper,  thirteen  rings  of  brasse  wyer,  fiftie  bars  of 
iron,  al  dry  and  wel  conditioned,  marked  with  this  marke  standing  before, 
all  which  I promise  to  deliver  (if  God  give  me  a prosperous  voyage  with 
my  said  ship)  at  London  aforesaid,  to  the  worshipful  Mr.  A.  J.  to  his 
factour  or  assignes,  paying  for  the  freight  of  the  foresaid  goods  20  fs.  by 
the  tun. 

Quaintness  and  humour  are  not  confined  to  the  ancient 
phrase-books.  An  English-Dutch  conversational  manual 
from  which  the  languages  are  still  learned  has  a specimen 

dialogue  ’’  in  a coach,  which  is  opened  by  the  gentleman 
remarking  genially  and  politely  to  his  fellow-passenger, 
a lady,  “ Madame,  shall  we  arrange  our  legs  ”. 

18 


274 


DUTCH 


It  occurs  to  me  that  very  little  Dutch  has  found  its  way 
into  these  pages.  Let  me  therefore  give  the  first  stanza  of 
the  national  song,  Voor  Vaderland  en  Vorst  : — 

Wien  Neerlandsch  bloed  in  de  aderen  vloeit, 

Van  vreemde  smetten  vrij, 

Wiens  hart  voor  land  en  Koning  gloeit, 

Verhef  den  zang  als  wij : 

Hij  stel  met  ons,  vereend  van  zin, 

Met  onbeklemde  borst, 

Het  godgevallig  feestlied  in 
Voor  Vaderland  en  Vorst. 

These  are  brave  words.  A very  pedestrian  translation  runs 
thus : — 

Who  Ne’erland’s  blood  feel  nobly  flow, 

From  foreign  tainture  free,  ^ ^ 

Whose  hearts  for  king  and  country  glow, 

Come,  raise  the  song  as  we : 

With  breasts  serene,  and  spirits  gay, 

In  holy  union  sing 
The  soul-inspiring  festal  lay, 

For  Fatherland  and  King. 

And  now  a specimen  of  really  mellifluous  Dutch.  How 

would  you  like,”  is  the  timely  question  of  a daily  paper 
this  morning,  as  I finish  this  chapter,  to  be  hit  by  a ^ snell- 
paardelooszoondeerspoorwegpitroolrijtung  ? ’ That  is  what 
would  happen  to  you  if  you  were  run  down  by  a motor-car 
in  Holland.  The  name  comes  from  ‘ snell,’  rapid  ; ‘ paar- 
deloos,’ horseless ; ^zoondeerspoorweg,’ without  rails ; ^pit- 
roolrijtung,’  driven  by  petroleum.  Only  a Dutchman  can 
pronounce  it.” 

Let  me  spice  this  chapter  by  selecting  from  the  pages  of 
proverbs  in  Dutch  and  English  a few  which  seem  to  me 
most  excellent.  No  nation  has  bad  proverbs ; the  Dutch 
have  some  very  good  ones. 


THE  r WISDOM  OF  MANY 


275 


Many  cows,  much  trouble. 

Even  hares  pull  a lion  by  the  beard  when  he  is  old. 

Men  can  bear  all  things,  except  good  days. 

The  best  pilots  are  ashore. 

Velvet  and  silk  are  strange  herbs : they  blow  the  fire  out 
of  the  kitchen. 

It  is  easy  to  make  a good  fire  of  another's  turf. 

It  is  good  cutting  large  girths  of  another  man’s  leather. 
High  trees  give  more  shadow  than  fruit. 

An  old  hunter  delighteth  to  hear  of  hunting. 

It  hath  soon  rained  enough  in  a wet  pool. 

God  giveth  the  fowls  meat,  but  they  must  fly  for  it. 

An  idle  person  is  the  devil’s  pillow. 

No  hen  so  witty  but  she  layeth  one  egg  lost  in  the 
nettles. 

It  happeneth  sometimes  that  a good  seaman  falls  over- 
board. 

He  is  wise  that  is  always  wise. 

When  every  one  sweeps  before  his  own  house,  then  are 
the  streets  clean. 

It  is  profitable  for  a man  to  end  his  life,  before  he  die. 
Before  thou  trust  a friend  eat  a peck  of  salt  with  him. 
It’s  bad  catching  hares  with  drums. 

The  pastor  and  sexton  seldom  agree. 

No  crown  cureth  headache. 

There  is  nothing  that  sooner  dryeth  up  than  a tear. 
Land  purchase  and  good  marriage  happen  not  every 
day. 

When  old  dogs  bark  it  is  time  to  look  out. 

Of  early  breakfast  and  late  marriage  men  get  not  lightly 
the  headache. 

Ride  on,  but  look  about. 

Nothing  in  haste,  but  to  catch  fleas. 


276 


THE  RHINE’S  ALIASES 


To  return  to  Arnheim : of  the  Groote  Kerk  I remember 
only  the  very  delicate  colouring  of  the  ceiling,  and  the 
monument  of  Charles  van  Egmont,  Duke  of  Guelders.  I 
had  grown  tired  of  architecture : it  seemed  goodlier  to 
watch  the  shipping  on  the  river,  which  at  Arnheim  may 
be  called  the  Rhine  without  hesitation.  All  the  traffic  to 
Cologne  must  pass  the  town.  Hitherto  one  had  had  qualms 
about  the  use  of  the  word,  having  seen  the  Rhine  under 
various  aliases  in  so  many  places.  The  Maas  at  Rotter- 
dam is  a mouth  of  the  Rhine ; but  before  it  can  become 
the  Rhine  proper  it  becomes  the  Lek.  What  is  called  the 
true  mouth  of  the  Rhine  is  at  Katwyk.  At  Dordrecht  again 
is  another  of  the  Rhine’s  mouths,  the  Waal,  which  runs 
into  the  old  Maas  and  then  into  the  sea.  The  Yssel,  still 
another  mouth  of  the  Rhine,  which  I saw  at  Kampen  on 
its  way  into  the  Zuyder  Zee,  breaks  away  from  the  parent 
river  just  below  Arnheim.  As  a matter  of  fact  all  Holland 
is  on  the  Rhine,  but  the  word  must  be  used  with  care. 

If  one  would  study  Dutch  romantic  scenery  I think 
Nymwegen  on  the  whole  a better  town  to  stay  in  than 
Arnheim.  It  is  simpler  in  itself,  richer  in  historic  associa- 
tions, and  the  country  in  the  immediate  east  is  very  well 
worth  exploring — hill  and  valley  and  pine  woods,  with 
quaint  villages  here  and  there ; and,  for  the  comfortable, 
a favourite  hotel  at  Berg  en  Daal  from  which  great 
stretches  of  the  Rhine  may  be  seen. 

To  see  Nymwegen  itself  to  greater  advantage,  with  its 
massed  houses  and  towers  presenting  a solid  front,  one 
must  go  over  the  iron  bridge  to  Lent  and  then  look  back 
across  the  river.  At  all  times  the  old  town  wears  from 
this  point  of  view  an  interesting  and  romantic  air,  but 
never  so  much  as  at  evening. 

Some  versions  of  “Lohengrin”  set  the  story  at  Nymwegen; 


THE  MARKET  PLACE,  NYMWEGEN 


THE  DUTCH  NOTTINGHAM 


277 


but  the  Lohengrin  monument  is  at  Kleef,  a few  miles  above 
the  confluence  of  the  Rhine  and  the  Waal,  the  river  on 
which  Nymwegen  stands. 

Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu,  who  was  at  Nymwegen 
in  1716,  drew  an  odd  comparison  between  that  town  and 
the  English  town  of  Nottingham.  If  Edinburgh  is  the 
modern  Athens  there  is  no  reason  why  Nottingham  should 
not  be  the  English  Nymwegen.  Lady  Mary  writes  to  her 
friend  Sarah  Chiswell  : “ If  you  were  with  me  in  this 
town,  you  would  be  ready  to  expect  to  receive  visits  from 
your  Nottingham  friends.  No  two  places  were  ever  more 
resembling  ; one  has  but  to  give  the  Maese  the  name  of  the 
Trent,  and  there  is  no  distinguishing  the  prospects — the 
houses,  like  those  of  Nottingham,  built  one  above  another, 
and  are  intermixed  in  the  same  manner  with  trees  and 
gardens.  The  tower  they  call  Julius  Caesar’s  has  the  same 
situation  with  Nottingham  Castle ; and  I cannot  help 
fancying  I see  from  it  the  Trent-field,  Adboulton,  &c., 
places  so  well  known  to  us.  ’Tis  true,  the  fortifications 
make  a considerable  difference.  . . 

Nymwegen  reminded  me  of  nothing  but  itself.  It  is  in 
reality  two  towns : a spacious  residential  town  near  the 
station,  with  green  squares,  and  statues,  and  modern  houses 
' (one  of  them  so  modern  as  to  be  employing  a vacuum  cleaner, 
which  throbbed  and  panted  in  the  garden  as  I passed)  ; and 
the  old  mediaeval  Nymwegen,  gathered  about  one  of  the 
most  charming  market  places  in  all  Holland — a scene  for 
comic  opera.  The  Dutch  way  of  chequering  the  shutters 
in  blue  and  yellow  (as  at  Middelburg)  or  in  red  and  black, 
or  red  and  white,  is  here  practised  to  perfection.  The 
very  beautiful  weigh-house  has  red  and  black  shutters ; 
the  gateway  which  leads  to  the  church  has  them  too. 

Never  have  I seen  a church  so  hemmed  in  by  surround- 


278 


THE  VALKHOF 


ing  buildings.  The  little  houses  beset  it  as  the  pigmies 
beset  Antaeus.  After  some  difficulty  I found  my  way  in, 
and  wandered  for  a while  among  its  white  immensities. 
It  is  practically  a church  within  a church,  the  region  of 
services  being  isolated  in  the  midst,  in  the  unlovely  Dutch 
way,  within  hideous  wooden  walls.  It  is  very  well  worth 
while  to  climb  the  tower  and  see  the  great  waterways  of 
this  country  beneath  you.  The  prospect  is  mingled  wood 
and  polder:  to  the  east  and  south-east,  shaggy  hills;  to 
the  west,  the  moors  of  Brabant;  to  the  north,, Arnheim’s 
dark  heights. 

Nymwegen  has  many  lions,  chief  of  which  perhaps  is  the 
Valkhof,  in  the  grounds  above  the  river — the  remains  of  a 
palace  of  the  Carlovingians.  It  is  of  immense  age,  being 
at  once  the  oldest  building  in  Holland  and  the  richest 
in  historic  memories.  For  here  lived  Charlemagne  .and 
Charles  the  Bald,  Charles  the  Bold  and  Maximilian  of 
Austria.  The  palace  might  still  be  standing  were  it  not 
for  the  destructiveness  of  the  French  at  the  end  of  the 
eighteenth  century.  A picture  by  Jan  van  Goyen  in  the 
stadhuis  gives  an  idea  of  the  Valkhof  in  his  day,  before 
vandalism  had  set  in. 

As  some  evidence  of  the  town’s  pride  in  her  association 
with  these  great  names  the  curfew,  which  is  tolled  every 
evening  at  eight  o’clock,  but  which  I did  not  hear,  is 
called  Charlemagne’s  Prayer.  The  fa9ade  of  the  stadhuis 
is  further  evidence,  for  it  carries  the  statues  of  some  of  the 
ancient  monarchs  who  made  Nymwegen  their  home. 

Within  the  stadhuis  is  another  of  the  beautiful  j ustice 
halls  which  Holland  possesses  in  such  profusion,  the  most  in- 
teresting of  which  we  saw  at  Kampen.  Kampen’s  oak  seats 
are  not,  however,  more  beautiful  than  those  of  Nymwegen ; 
and  Kampen  has  no  such  clock  as  stands  here,  distilling 


BOIS  LE  DUG 


279 


information,  tick  by  tick,  of  days,  and  years,  and  sun,  and 
moon,  and  stars.  The  stadhuis  has  also  treasures  of 
tapestry  and  Spanish  leather,  and  a museum  containing  a 
very  fine  collection  of  antiquities,  including  one  of  the  famous 
wooden  petticoats  of  Nymwegen — a painted  barrel  worn  as 
a penance  by  peccant  dames. 

From  Nymwegen  the  train  took  me  to  Hertzogenbosch,  or 
Bois  le  Due,  the  capital  of  Brabant.  It  is  from  Brabant,  we 
were  told  by  a proverb  which  I quoted  in  my  first  chapter 
on  Friesland,  that  one  should  take  a sheep.  Great  flocks 
of  sheep  may  be  seen  on  the  Brabant  moors,  exactly  as  in 
Mauve’s  pictures.  They  are  kept  not  for  food,  for  the 
Dutch  dislike  mutton,  but  for  wool. 

Bois  le  Due  has  the  richest  example  of  mediaeval  archi- 
tecture in  Holland — the  cathedral  of  St.  John,  a wonderful 
fantasy  in  stone,  rich  not  only  without,  but,  contrary  to 
all  Dutch  precedent,  within  too ; for  we  are  at  last  again 
among  a people  who  for  the  most  part  retain  the  religion 
of  Rome.  The  glass  of  the  cathedral  is  poor,  but  there  is 
a delicate  green  pattern  on  the  vaulting  which  is  very 
charming.  The  koster  is  proudest  of  the  pulpit,  and  of  a 
figure  of  the  Virgin  which  is  carried  in  procession  through 
the  town  every  evening  between  July  7th  and  16th”. 

But  I was  not  interested  so  much  in  particular  things  as 
in  the  cathedral  as  a whole.  To  be  in  the  midst  of  this 
grey  Gothic  environment  was  what  I desired,  and  after  a 
little  difficulty  I induced  the  koster  to  leave  me  to  wander 
alone.  It  was  the  first  church  in  Holland  with  the  old 
authentic  thrill. 

Bois  le  Due  (as  it  is  more  simple  to  call  it)  is  a gay  town 
with  perhaps  the  most  spirited  market  place  in  the  country. 
The  stalls  have  each  an  awning,  as  in  the  south  of  Europe, 
and  the  women’s  heads  are  garlanded  with  flowers,  I like 


280 


A WAR  STORY 


this  method  of  decoration  as  little  as  any,  but  it  carries 
with  it  a pleasant  sense  of  festivity. 

From  Bois  le  Due  one  may  go  due  north  to  Utrecht  and 
Amsterdam,  passing  on  the  way  Bommel,  with  its  tall  and 
impressive  tower  rising  from  its  midst.  Or  one  may  keep 
to  the  western  route  and  reach  Walcheren.  That  is  my 
present  course,  and  Bommel  may  be  left  with  a curious 
story  of  the  Spaniards  in  1599.  ^^Two  brothers  who  had 
never  seen,  and  had  always  been  inquiring  for,  each  other, 
met  at  last  by  chance  at  the  siege,  where  they  served  in 
two  different  companies.  The  elder,  who  was  called 
Hernando  Diaz,  having  heard  the  other  mentioned  by  the 
name  of  Encisso,  which  was  his  mothers  surname,  and  which 
he  had  taken  through  affection,  a thing  common  in  Spain, 
put  several  questions  to  him  concerning  a number  of  family 
particulars,  and  knew  at  last  by  the  exactness  of  his  answers 
that  he  was  the  brother  he  had  been  so  long  seeking  after ; 
upon  which  both  proceeding  to  a close  embrace,  a cannon 
ball  struck  off  both  their  heads,  without  separating  their 
bodies,  which  fell  clinging  together.” 

Helvoet,  on  the  way  to  Tilburg,  is  the  scene  of  an  old 
but  honourable  story.  Ireland  tells  us  that  George  the 
Second,  being  detained  by  contrary  winds  on  his  return 
from  Hanover,  reposed  at  Helvoet  until  the  sea  should 
subside.  While  there  he  one  day  stopped  a pretty  Dutch 
girl  to  ask  her  what  she  had  in  her  basket,  ‘‘Eggs, 
mynheer.”  “ And  what  is  the  price  ? ” “ A ducat  a piece, 

mynheer.”  “ Are  eggs  so  scarce  then  in  Holland  ? ” “ No, 

mynheer,  but  kings  are.” 

At  Tilburg  I did  not  tarry,  but  rode  on  to  Breda  (which 
is  pronounced  with  all  the  accent  on  the  second  syllable), 
and  which  is  famous  for  a castle  (now  a military  school) 
and  a tomb.  The  castle,  a very  beautiful  building,  was 


ANTON  MAUVE 


ADRIAN’S  STRATEGY 


281 


built  by  Count  Henry  of  Nassau.  On  becoming  in  due 
course  the  property  of  William  the  Silent,  it  was  confiscated 
by  the  Duke  of  Alva.  How  it  was  won  back  again  is  a 
story  worth  telling. 

The  great  achievement  belonged  to  a simple  boatman 
named  Adrian.  Whether  or  not  he  had  read  or  heard  of 
the  Trojan  horse  is  not  known,  but  his  scheme  was  not 
wholly  different.  Briefly  he  recommended  Prince  Maurice 
to  conceal  soldiers  in  his  peat  boat,  under  the  peats,  to 
be  conveyed  as  peat  into  the  Spanish  garrison.  The  plan 
was  approved  and  Captain  Heranguiere  was  placed  in 
charge  of  it. 

The  boat  was  laden  and  Adrian  poled  it  into  the  fortress  ; 
and  all  was  going  well  until  the  coldness  of  the  night 
set  the  soldiers  coughing.  All  were  affected,  but  chiefly 
Lieutenant  Hells,  who,  vainly  attempting  to  be  silent,  at 
last  implored  his  comrades  to  kill  him  lest  he  ruin  the 
enterprise.  Adrian,  however,  prevented  this  grim  necessity 
by  pumping  very  hard  and  thus  covering  the  sound. 

It  had  been  arranged  that  the  Prince  should  be  outside 
the  city  at  a certain  hour.  Just  before  the  time  Heran- 
guiere and  his  men  sprang  out  of  their  hiding,  killed 
the  garrison,  opened  the  gates,  and  the  castle  was  won 
again.  Heranguiere  was  rewarded  by  being  made  governor 
of  Breda ; Adrian  was  pensioned,  and  the  boat  was  taken 
from  its  native  elements  and  exalted  into  an  honoured 
position  in  the  castle.  When,  however,  the  Spanish  general 
Spinola  recaptured  Breda,  one  of  his  first  duties  was  to 
burn  this  worthy  vessel. 

The  jewel  of  Breda,  which  is  a spreading  fortified  town, 
is  the  tomb  of  Count  Engelbert  I.  of  Nassau,  in  one  of  the 
chapels  of  the  great  church.  The  count  and  his  lady,  both 
sculptured  in  alabaster,  lie  side  by  side  beneath  a canopy 


282 


CLEANLINESS 


of  black  marble,  which  is  borne  by  four  warriors  also  of 
alabaster.  On  the  canopy  are  the  arms  and  accoutrements 
of  the  dead  Count.  The  tomb,  which  was  the  work  of 
Vincenz  of  Bologna  in  the  sixteenth  century,  is  wholly 
satisfying  in  its  dignity,  austerity  and  grace. 

To  the  font  in  Breda  cathedral  William  III.  attached 
the  privilege  of  London  citizenship.  Any  child  christened 
there  could  claim  the  rights  of  a Londoner,  the  origin 
of  the  sanction  being  the  presence  of  English  soldiers 
at  Breda  and  their  wish  that  their  children  should  be 
English  too.  Whether  or  not  the  Dutch  guards  who 
were  helping  the  English  at  the  end  of  the  seventeenth 
century  had  a similar  privilege  in  London  I do  not 
know. 

Late  one  Saturday  evening  I watched  in  a milk  shop  at 
Breda  a conscientious  Dutch  woman  at  work.  She  had 
just  finished  scrubbing  the  floor  and  polishing  the  brass, 
and  was  now  engaged  in  laying  little  paths  of  paper  in  case 
any  chance  customer  should  come  in  over  night  and  soil 
the  boards  before  Sunday.  I thought  as  I stood  there  how 
impossible  it  would  be  for  an  English  woman  tired  with 
the  week  to  sit  up  like  this  to  clean  a shop  against  the 
next  day.  Sir  William  Temple  has  a pleasant  story 
illustrating  at  once  the  inherent  passion  for  cleanliness  in 
the  Dutch  women  and  also  their  old  masterfulness.  It 
tells  how  a magistrate,  paying  an  afternoon  call,  was  re- 
ceived at  the  door  by  a stout  North  Holland  lass  who, 
lest  he  should  soil  the  floor,  took  him  bodily  in  her  arms  and 
carried  him  to  a chair  ; sat  him  in  it ; removed  his  boots ; 
put  a pair  of  slippers  on  his  feet ; and  then  led  him  to  her 
mistresses  presence. 

Bergen-op-Zoom  has  its  place  in  history ; but  it  is  a dull 
town  in  fact.  Nor  has  it  beautiful  streets,  with  the  excep- 


GRIMSTON  AND  REDHEAD 


288 


tion  of  that  which  leads  to  the  old  Gevangenpoort  with  its 
little  painted  towers.  I must  confess  that  I did  not  like 
Bergen-op-Zoom.  It  seemed  to  me  curiously  inhospitable 
and  critical ; which  was  of  course  a wrong  attitude  to  take 
up  towards  a countryman  of  Grimston  and  Redhead.  Who 
are  Grimston  and  Redhead  ? I seem  to  hear  the  reader 
asking.  Grimston  and  Redhead  were  two  members  of  the 
English  garrison  when  the  Prince  of  Parma  besieged 
Bergen-op-Zoom  in  1588,  and  it  was  their  cunning  which 
saved  the  town.  Falling  intentionally  into  the  Prince’s 
hands  they  affected  to  inform  him  of  the  vulnerability  of 
the  defences,  and  outlined  a scheme  by  which  his  capture 
of  a decisive  position  was  practically  certain.  Having  been 
entrusted  with  the  conduct  of  the  attack,  they  led  his  men, 
by  preconcerted  design,  into  an  ambush,  with  the  result 
that  the  siege  was  raised. 

All  being  fair  in  love  and  war  one  should,  I suppose,  be 
at  the  feet  of  these  brave  fellows ; but  I have  no  enthusiasm 
for  that  kind  of  thing.  At  the  same  time  there  is  no  doubt 
that  the  Dutch  ought  to,  and  therefore  I am  the  more  dis- 
tressed by  Bergen-op-Zoom’s  rudeness  to  our  foreign  garb. 

Bergen  had  seen  battle  before  the  siege,  for  when  it  was 
held  by  the  Spanish,  at  the  beginning  of  the  war,  a naval 
engagement  was  held  off  it  in  the  Scheldt,  between  the 
Spanish  fleet  and  the  Beggars  of  the  Sea,  whom  we  are  about 
to  meet.  The  victory  was  to  the  Beggars.  Later,  in  1747, 
Bergen  was  besieged  again,  this  time  by  the  French  and 
much  more  fiercely  than  by  the  Spaniards. 

From  Bergen-op-Zoom  we  went  to  Tholen,  passing  the 
whitest  of  windmills  on  the  way.  Tholen  is  an  odd  little 
ancient  town  gained  by  a tramway  and  a ferry.  Head- 
dresses here,  as  at  Bois  le  Due,  are  very  much  over-decorated 
with  false  flowers ; but  in  a little  shop  in  one  of  the  naiTow 


284 


A DUTCH  GIRL 


and  deserted  streets  we  found  some  very  pretty  lace.  We 
found,  also  on  the  edge  of  the  town,  a very  merry  windmill ; 
and  we  had  lunch  at  an  inn  window  which  commanded 
the  harnessing  of  the  many  market  carts,  into  every  one 
of  which  climbed  a stolid  farmer  and  a wife  brimming  with 
gossip. 

In  the  returning  steam-tram  from  Tholen  to  Bergen-op- 
Zoom  was  a Dutch  maiden.  So  typical  was  she  that  she 
might  have  been  a composite  portrait  of  all  Dutch  girls  of 
eighteen — smooth  fair  features,  a very  clear  complexion, 
prim  clothes.  A friend  getting  in  too,  she  talked ; or 
rather  he  talked,  and  she  listened,  and  agreed  or  dissented 
very  quietly,  and  I had  the  pleasure  of  watching  how  ad- 
mirably adapted  is  the  Dutch  feminine  countenance  for  the 
display  of  the  nuances  of  emotion,  the  enregistering  of 
every  thought.  Expression  after  expression  flitted  across 
her  face  and  mouth  like  the  alternate  shadow  and  sun  in 
the  Weald  on  a breezy  April  day.  A French  woman’s  many 
vivacious  and  eloquent  expressions  seem  to  come  from 
within  ; but  the  Dutch  present  a placid  sensitised  surface 
on  which  their  companions’  conversation  records  the  most 
delicate  tracery.  This  girl’s  little  reluctant  smiles  were 
very  charming,  and  we  were  at  Bergen-op-Zoom  again  before 
I knew  it. 


CHAPTER  XIX 


MIDDELBURG 

The  friendly  Zeelanders — A Spanish  heritage — Deceptive  Dutch  towns 
— The  Abbey  Hotel — The  Abbey  of  St.  Nicholas — Middelburg’s 
art — Sentimental  songs — The  great  Tacius — The  siege  of  Middel- 
burg — A round-faced  city — When  disfigurement  is  beauty — Green 
paint — Long  John — Music  in  the  night — Foolish  Betsy — The  Stad- 
huis — An  Admiral  and  stuffed  birds — The  law  of  the  paving-stones 
— ^Veere — The  prey  of  the  sea — A mammoth  church — Maximilian’s 
cup. 

WITH  Middelburg  I have  associated,  for  charm, 
Hoorn ; but  Middelburg  stands  first.  It  is 
serener,  happier,  more  human ; while  the  nature  of  the 
Zeelander  is  to  the  stranger  so  much  more  ingratiating 
than  that  of  the  North  Hollander.  The  Zeelander — and 
particularly  the  Walcheren  islander — has  the  eccentricity 
to  view  the  stranger  as  a natural  object  rather  than  a 
phenomenon.  Flushing  being  avowedly  cosmopolitan  does 
not  count,  but  at  Middelburg,  the  capital  of  Zeeland,  you 
may,  although  the  only  foreigner  there,  walk  about  in  the 
oddest  clothes  and  receive  no  embarrassing  attentions. 

It  is  not  that  the  good  people  of  Walcheren  are  quicker 
to  see  where  their  worldly  advantage  lies.  They  are  not 
schemers  or  financiers.  The  reason  resides  in  a native 
politeness,  a heritage,  some  have  conjectured,  from  their 
Spanish  forefathers.  One  sees  hints  of  Spanish  blood  also  in 

the  exceptional  flexibility  and  good  carriage  of  the  Wal- 

(285) 


286  THE  ABBEY 

cheren  women.  Whatever  the  cause  of  Zeeland’s  friendli- 
ness, there  it  is ; and  in  Middelburg  the  foreigner  wanders  at 
ease,  almost  as  comfortable  and  self-possessed  as  if  he  were 
in  France. 

And  it  is  the  pleasantest  town  to  wander  in,  and  an 
astonishingly  large  one.  A surprising  expansiveness,  when 
one  begins  to  explore  them,  is  an  idiosyncrasy  of  Dutch 
towns.  From  the  railway,  seeing  a church  spire  and  a few 
roofs,  one  had  expected  only  a village ; and  behold  street 
runs  into  street  until  one’s  legs  ache.  This  is  peculiarly 
the  case  with  Gorinchem,  which  is  almost  invisible  from 
the  line ; and  it  is  the  case  with  Middelburg,  and  Hoorn, 
and  many  other  towns  that  I do  not  recall  at  this  moment. 

My  advice  to  travellers  in  Walcheren  is  to  stay  at 
Middelburg  rather  than  at  Flushing  (they  are  very  nigh 
each  other)  and  to  stay,  moreover,  at  the  Hotel  of  the 
Abbey.  It  is  not  the  best  hotel  in  Holland  as  regards 
appointment  and  cuisine ; but  it  is  certainly  one  of  the 
pleasantest  in  character,  and  I found  none  other  in  so 
fascinating  a situation.  For  it  occupies  one  side  of  the 
quiet  square  enclosed  by  the  walls  of  the  Abbey  of  St. 
Nicholas  (or  Abdij,  as  the  Dutch  oddly  call  it),  and  you 
look  from  your  windows  through  a grove  of  trees  to  the 
delicate  spires  and  long  low  facade  of  this  ancient  House 
of  God ; which  is  now  given  over  to  the  Governor  of  Zee- 
land,  to  the  library  of  the  Province,  and  to  the  Provincial 
Council,  who  meet  in  fifteenth  century  chambers  and  trans- 
act their  business  on  nouveau  art  furniture. 

What  the  Abbey  must  have  been  before  it  was  destroyed 
by  fire  we  can  only  guess ; but  one  thing  we  know,  and 
that  is  that  among  its  treasures  were  paintings  by  the 
great  Mabuse  (Jan  Gossaert),  who  once  roystered  through 
Middelburg’s  quiet  streets.  Another  artist  of  Middelburg 


MIDDELBURG 


SENTIMENTAL  SONGS 


287 


was  Adrian  van  der  Venne,  who  made  the  quaint  drawings 
for  Jacob  Cats’  symbols,  of  which  we  have  seen  something 
in  an  earlier  chapter.  But  the  city  has  never  been  a home 
of  the  arts.  Beyond  a little  tapestry,  some  of  which  may 
be  seen  in  the  stadhuis,  and  some  at  the  Abbey,  it  made 
nothing  beautiful.  From  earliest  times  the  Middelburgers 
were  merchants — wool  merchants  and  wine  merchants 
principally,  but  always  tradespeople  and  always  prosper- 
ous and  contented. 

A tentoonstelling  (or  exhibition)  of  copper  work  was  in 
progress  when  I was  there  last  summer;  but  it  was  not 
interesting,  and  I had  better  have  taken  the  advice  of  the 
Music  Hall  manager,  in  whose  grounds  it  was  held,  and 
have  saved  my  money.  His  attitude  to  repousse  work  was 
wholly  pessimistic,  part  prejudice  against  the  craft  of  the 
metal-worker  in  itself,  but  more  resentment  that  florins 
should  be  diverted  into  such  a channel  away  from  comic 
singers  and  acrobats.  Seated  at  one  of  the  garden  tables 
we  discussed  Dutch  taste  in  varieties. 

The  sentimental  song,  he  told  me,  is  a drug  in  Holland.  . 
Anything  rather  than  that.  No  matter  how  pretty  the 
girl  may  be,  she  must  not  sing  a sentimental  song.  But  if 
I wished  to  witness  the  only  way  in  which  a sentimental 
song  would  go  down,”  I must  visit  his  performance  that 
evening — reserved  seats  one,  fifty, — a;nd  hear  the  great 
Tacius.  He  drew  from  his  pocket  a handbill  which  was  at 
that  moment  being  scattered  broadcast  over  Middelburg. 
It  bore  the  name  of  this  marvel,  this  solver  of  the  senti- 
mental riddle,  and  beneath  it  three  interrogation  marks. 
The  manager  winked.  “ That,”  he  said,  “ will  excite 
interest.” 

We  went  that  evening  and  heard  Tacius — a portly 
gentleman  in  a ball  dress  and  a yellow  wig,  who  after 


288 


A ROUND-FACED  CITY 


squeaking  five-sixths  of  a love  song  in  a timid  falsetto 
which  might  pass  for  a woman’s  voice,  roared  out  the 
balance  like  a bull.  He  brought  down  the  house. 

Like  most  other  Dutch  towns  Middelburg  had  its  period 
of  siege.  But  there  was  this  difference,  that  Middelburg 
was  held  by  the  Spanish  and  besieged  by  the  Dutch,  whereas 
the  custom  was  for  the  besiegers  to  be  Spanish  and  the 
besieged  Dutch.  Middelburg  suffered  every  privation 
common  to  invested  cities,  even  to  the  trite  consumption 
of  rats  and  dogs,  cats  and  mice.  Just  as  destruction 
seemed  inevitable — for  the  Spanish  commander  Mondragon 
swore  to  fire  it  and  perish  with  it  rather  than  submit — a 
compromise  was  arranged,  and  he  surrendered  without 
dishonour,  the  terms  of  the  capitulation  (which,  however, 
Spain  would  not  allow  him  to  carry  out)  being  another 
illustration  of  the  wisdom  and  humanity  of  William  the 
Silent. 

Middelburg  has  never  known  a day’s  suffering  since  her 
siege.  A local  proverb  says,  Goed  rond,  goed  Zeuwsch  ” — 
very  round,  very  Zeelandish — and  an  old  writer — so  M. 
Havard  tells  us — describes  Middelburg  as  a round  faced 
city”.  If  by  round  we  mean  not  only  circular  but  also 
plump  and  comfortable,  we  have  Middelburg  and  its  sons 
and  daughters  very  happily  hit  off.  Structurally  the  town 
is  round  : the  streets  curve,  the  Abbey  curves  ; seen  from  a 
balloon  or  the  summit  of  the  church  tower,  the  plan  of  the 
city  would  reveal  itself  a circle.  And  there  is  a roundness 
also  in  the  people.  They  smile  roundly,  they  laugh 
roundly,  they  live  roundly. 

The  women  and  girls  of  Middelburg  are  more  comely 
and  winsome  than  any  in  Holland.  Their  lace  caps  are 
like  driven  snow,  their  cheeks  shine  like  apples.  But  their 
way  with  their  arms  I cannot  commend.  The  sleeve  of 


MIDDELBURG’S  DAUGHTERS 


289 


their  bodices  ends  far  above  the  elbow,  and  is  made  so 
tight  that  the  naked  arm  below  expands  on  attaining  its 
liberty,  and  by  constant  and  intentional  friction  takes  the 
hue  of  the  tomato.  What,  however,  is  to  our  eyes  only  a 
suggestion  of  inflammation,  is  to  the  Zeelander  a beauty. 
While  our  impulse  is  to  recommend  cold  cream,  the  young 
bloods  of  Middelburg  (I  must  suppose)  are  holding  their 
beating  hearts.  These  are  the  differences  of  nations — 
beyond  anything  dreamed  of  in  Babel. 

The  principal  work  of  these  ruddy-armed  and  wide- 
hipped damsels  seems  to  be  to  carry  green  pails  on  a blue 
yoke — and  their  perfect  fitness  in  Middelburg’s  cheerful 
and  serene  streets  is  another  instance  of  the  Dutch  cleverness 
in  the  use  of  green  paint.  These  people  paint  their  houses 
every  year — not  in  conformity  with  any  written  law,  but 
upon  a universal  feeling  that  that  is  what  should  be  done. 
To  this  very  pretty  habit  is  largely  due  the  air  of  fresh 
gaiety  that  their  towns  possess.  Middelburg  is  of  the 
gayest.  Greenest  of  all,  as  I have  said,  is  perhaps  Zaandam. 
Sometimes  they  paint  too  freely,  even  the  trunks  of  trees 
and  good  honest  statuary  coming  under  the  brush.  But 
for  the  most  part  they  paint  well. 

It  is  hot  alone  the  cloistral  Gothic  seclusion  in  which  the 
Abbey  hotel  reposes  that  commends  it  to  the  wise : there 
is  the  further  allurement  of  Long  John.  Long  John,  or 
De  Lange  Jan,  is  the  soaring  tower  of  the  Abbey  church, 
now  the  Nieuwe  Kerk.  So  long  have  his  nearly  300  feet 
dominated  Middelburg — he  was  first  built  in  the  thirteenth 
century,  and  rebuilt  in  the  sixteenth — that  he  has  become 
more  than  a structure  of  bricks  and  copper : a thinking 
entity,  a tutelary  spirit  at  once  the  pride  and  the  protector 
of  the  town.  His  voice  is  heard  more  often  than  any  belfry 
beneath  whose  shadow  I have  lain.  Holland,  as  we  have 


19 


290  LONG  JOHN  AND  FOOLISH  BETSY 


seen,  is  a land  of  bells  and  carillons ; nowhere  in  the  world 
are  the  feet  of  Time  so  dogged ; but  Long  John  is  the 
most  faithful  sleuth  of  all.  He  is  almost  ahead  of  his 
quarry.  He  seems  to  know  no  law ; he  set  out,  I believe, 
with  a commission  entitling  him  to  ring  his  one  and  forty 
bells  every  seven  and  a half  minutes,  or  eight  times  in  the 
hour ; but  long  since  he  must  have  torn  up  that  warranty, 
for  he  is  now  his  own  master,  breaking  out  into  little  sighs  of 
melancholy  or  wistful  music  whenever  the  mood  takes  him. 
I have  never  heard  such  profoundly  plaintive  airs  as  his — 
very  beautiful,  very  grave,  very  deliberate.  One  cannot 
say  more  for  persistent  chimes  than  this — that  at  the 
Abbey  hotel  it  is  no  misfortune  to  wake  in  the  night. 

Long  John  has  a companion  in  Foolish  Betsy.  Foolish 
Betsy  is  the  stadhuis  clock,  so  called  (Gekke  Betje)  from 
her  refusal  to  keep  time  with  the  giant : another  instance  of 
the  power  which  John  exerts  over  the  town,  even  to  the 
wounding  of  chivalry.  The  Nieuwe  Kerk  would  be  nothing 
without  its  tower — it  is  one  of  the  barest  and  least  interest- 
ing churches  in  a country  which  has  reduced  to  the  finest 
point  the  art  of  denuding  religion  of  mystery — but  the 
stadhuis  would  still  be  wonderful  even  without  its  Betsy. 
There  is  nothing  else  like  it  in  Holland,  nothing  anywhere 
quite  so  charming  in  its  shameless  happy  floridity . I cannot 
describe  it : the  building  is  too  complicated,  too  ornate ; I 
can  only  say  that  it  is  wholly  captivating  and  thoroughly 
out  of  keeping  with  the  Dutch  genius — Spanish  influence 
again  apparent.  Beneath  the  eaves  are  four  and  twenty 
statues  of  the  Counts  of  Holland  and  Zeeland,  and  the 
roof  is  like  a mass-meeting  of  dormer  windows. 

In  addition  to  the  stadhuis  museum,  which  is  dedi- 
cated to  the  history  of  Middelburg  and  Zeeland,  the  town 
has  also  a municipal  museum,  too  largely  given  over  to 


HELENE  VAN  DER  SCHALKE 

GERARD  TERBURG 
From  the  picture  in  the  Ryks  Musetim 


THE  PAINFUL  STREETS 


291 


shells  and  stuffed  birds,  but  containing  also  such  human 
relics  as  the  wheel  on  which  Admiral  de  Ruyter  as  a boy 
helped  his  father  to  make  rope,  and  also  the  first  micro- 
scope and  the  first  telescope,  both  the  work  of  Zacharias 
Jansen,  a Zeeland  mathematician.  More  interesting  per- 
haps are  the  rooms  in  the  old  Zeeland  manner,  corre- 
sponding to  the  Hindeloopen  rooms  which  we  have  seen  at 
Leeuwarden,  but  lacking  their  cheerful  richness  of  orna- 
mentation. It  is  certainly  a museum  that  should  be 
visited,  albeit  the  stuffed  birds  weigh  heavily  on  the  brow. 

After  all,  MiddelburgVbest  museum  is  itself.  Its  streets 
and  houses  are  a never-ending  pleasure.  Something  glad- 
dens the  eye  at  every  turn — a blue  and  yellow  shutter,  a 
red  and  black  shutter,  a turret,  a daring  gable,  a knot  of 
country  peopie,  a fat  Zeeland  baby,  a milk-can  rivalling 
the  sun,  an  old  woman^s  lace  cap,  a young  woman^s  merry 
mouth.  Only  in  two  respects  is  the  town  unsatisfactory,  and 
both  are  connected  with  its  streets.  The  liberty  given  to 
each  householder  to  erect  an  iron  fence  across  the  pavement 
at  each  limit  of  his  property  makes  it  necessary  to  walk  in 
the  road,  and  the  pave  of  the  road  is  so  rough  as  to  cause 
no  slight  suffering  to  any  one  in  thin  boots.  M.  Havard 
has  an  amusing  passage  on  this  topic,  in  which  he  says 
that  the  ancient  fifteenth-century  punishment  for  marital 
infidelity,  a sin  forbidden  by  the  municipal  laws  no  less 
than  by  Heaven,  was  the  supply  by  the  offending  man  of 
a certain  number  of  paving  stones.  After  such  an  ex- 
planation, the  genial  Frenchman  adds,  we  must  not  com- 
plain : — 

Nos  peres  ont  p^ches,  nos  peres  ne  sont  plus, 

Et  c’est  nous  qui  portons  la  peine  de  leurs  crimes. 

The  island  of  Walcheren  is  quickly  learned.  From 
Middelburg  one  can  drive  in  a day  to  the  chief  points  of 


S92 


VEERE 


interest — Westcapelle  and  Domburg,  Veere  and  Arnemui- 
den.  Of  these  Veere  is  the  jewel — Veere,  once  Middelburg^s 
dreaded  rival,  and  in  its  possession  of  a clear  sea-way  and 
harbour  her  superior,  but  now  forlorn.  For  in  the  seven- 
teenth century  Holland’s  ancient  enemy  overflowed  its 
barriers,  and  the  greater  part  of  Veere  was  blotted  out  in 
a night.  What  remains  is  a mere  symbol  of  the  past; 
but  there  is  enough  to  loiter  in  with  perfect  content,  for 
Veere  is  unique.  Certainly  no  little  town  is  so  good  to 
approach — with  the  friendliness  of  its  red  roofs  before  one 
all  the  way,  the  unearthly  hugeness  of  its  church  and  the 
magic  of  its  stadhuis  tower  against  the  blue. 

The  church,  which  is  visible  from  all  parts  of  the  island, 
is  immense,  in  itself  an  indication  of  what  a city  Veere 
must  have  been.  It  rises  like  a mammoth  from  the  flat. 
Only  the  east  end  is  now  used  for  services ; the  vast 
remainder,  white  and  naked,  is  given  up  to  bats  and  the 
handful  of  workmen  that  the  slender  restoration  funds 
make  it  possible  to  employ.  For  there  is  some  idea  of 
Veere’s  church  being  one  day  again  in  perfect  repair ; but 
that  day  will  not  be  in  our  time.  The  ravages  of  the  sea 
only  emptied  it : the  sea  does  not  desecrate.  It  was 
Napoleon  who  disgraced  the  church  by  converting  it  into 
barracks. 

Other  relics  of  Veere’s  past  are  the  tower  at  the  har- 
bour mouth  (its  fellow-tower  is  beneath  the  sea)  and  the 
beautifully  grave  Scotch  house  on  the  quay,  once  the 
centre  of  the  Scottish  wool  trade  of  these  parts. 

The  stadhuis  also  remains,  a dainty  distinguished 
structure  which  might  be  the  infant  daughter  of  the 
stadhuis  at  Middelburg.  Its  spire  has  a slender  aerial 
grace ; on  its  fa9ade  are  statues  of  the  Lords  of  Veere  and 
their  Ladies.  Within  is  a little  museum  of  antiquities, 


MAXIMILIAN^S  GOBLET 


293 


one  of  whose  most  interesting  possessions  is  the  entry  in 
the  Veere  register,  under  the  date  July  2nd,  1608,  of  the 
marriage  of  Hugo  Grotius  with  Maria  Reygersbergh  of 
Veere,  whom  we  have  seen  at  Loevenstein  assisting  in  her 
husband’s  escape  from  prison.  The  museum  is  in  the 
charge  of  a blond  custodian,  a descendant  of  sea  kings, 
whose  pride  in  the  golden  goblet  which  Maximilian  of  Bur- 
gundy, Veere’s  first  Marquis,  gave  to  the  town  in  1551, 
is  almost  paternal.  He  displays  it  as  though  it  were  a 
sacred  relic,  and  narrates  the  story  of  Veere’s  indignation 
when  a millionaire  attempted  to  buy  it,  so  feelingly  as  to 
fortify  and  complete  one’s  suspicions  that  money  after  all 
is  but  dross  and  the  love  of  it  the  root  of  evil. 


CHAPTER  XX 


FLUSHING 

Middelburg  once  more — The  Flushing  baths — Shrimps  and  chivalry — A 
Dutch  boy — Charles  V.  at  Souburg — Flushing  and  the  Spanish  yoke 
— Philip  and  William  the  Silent — The  capture  of  Brill — A far-reaching 
drunken  impulse — Flushing’s  independence — Admiral  de  Ruyter — 
England’s  Revenge— The  Middelburg  kermis — The  aristocracy  of 
avoirdupois — The  end. 

IT  is  wiser  I think  to  stay  at  Middelburg  and  visit 
Flushing  from  there  than  to  stay  at  Flushing.  One 
may  go  by  train  or  tram.  In  hot  weather  the  steam -tram 
is  the  better  way,  for  then  one  can  go  direct  to  the  baths 
and  bathe  in  the  stillest  arm  of  the  sea  that  I know.  Here 
I bathed  on  the  hottest  day  of  last  year,  1904,  among 
merry  albeit  considerable  water  nymphs  and  vivacious  men. 
These  I found  afterwards  should  have  dwelt  in  the  water 
for  ever,  for  they  emerged,  dried  and  dressed,  from 
the  machines,  something  less  than  ordinary  Batavians. 
I perhaps  carried  disillusionment  also. 

For  safe  bathing  the  Flushing  baths  could  not  well  be 
excelled,  but  I never  knew  shore  so  sandy.  To  rid  one’s 
self  of  sand  is  almost  an  impossibility.  With  each  step  it 
over-tops  one’s  boots. 

Returning  to  Middelburg  from  Flushing  one  evening,  in 
the  steam-tram,  we  found  ourselves  in  a compartment  filled 
with  happy  country  people,  most  of  them  making  for  the 

(894) 


SOUBURG 


295 


kermis,  then  in  full  swing  in  the  Middelburg  market  place. 
A pedlar  of  shrimps  stood  by  the  door  retailing  little 
pennyworths,  and  nothing  would  do  but  the  countryman 
opposite  me  must  buy  some  for  his  sweetheart.  When  he 
had  bought  them  he  was  for  emptying  them  in  her  lap,  but 
I tendered  the  wrapper  of  my  book  just  in  time  : an  act  of 
civility  which  brought  out  all  his  native  friendliness.  He 
offered  us  shrimps,  one  by  one,  first  peeling  them  with  kindly 
fingers  of  extraordinary  blackness,  and  we  ate  enough  to 
satisfy  him  that  we  meant  well : and  then  just  as  we  reached 
Middelburg,  he  gave  me  a cigar  and  walked  all  the  way  to 
the  Abbey  with  me,  watching  me  smoke  it.  It  was  an 
ordeal ; but  I hope,  for  the  honour  of  England,  that  I 
carried  it  through  successfully  and  convinced  him  that 
an  Englishman  knows  what  to  do  with  courtesy  when  he 
finds  it. 

In  the  same  tram  and  on  the  very  next  seat  to  us  was 
the  pleasantest  little  boy  that  I think  I ever  saw  : a perfect 
miniature  Dutchman,  with  wide  black  trousers  terminating 
in  a point,  pearl  buttons,  a tight  black  coat,  a black  hat, 
and  golden  neck  links  after  the  Zeeland  habit.  He  was 
perhaps  four,  plump  and  red  and  merry,  and  his  mother,  who 
nursed  his  baby  sister,  was  immensely  proud  of  him.  Some 
one  pressed  a twopenny  bit  into  his  hand  as  he  left  the  car, 
and  I watched  him  telling  the  great  news  to  half  a dozen  of 
the  women  who  were  waiting  by  the  side  of  the  road,  while 
his  face  shone  like  the  setting  sun. 

They  got  off  at  Souburg,  the  little  village  between 
Flushing  and  Middelburg  where  Charles  V.  was  living  in 
1556,  after  his  abdication,  before  he  sailed  for  his  last 
home.  It  is  odd  to  have  two  such  associations  with 
Souburg — the  weary  emperor  putting  off  the  purple,  and 
the  little  Dutch  boer  bursting  jollily  through  black  velvet. 


296 


DECLARATION  OF  WAR 


Flushing  played  a great  pai’t  in  the  great  war.  It  was 
from  Flushing  that  Charles  V.  sailed  in  1 556  ; from  Flush- 
ing that  Philip  II.  sailed  in  1559 ; neither  to  return.  It  was 
Flushing  that  heard  Philip’s  farewell  to  William  of  Orange, 
which  in  the  light  of  after  events  may  be  called  the  de- 
claration of  war  that  was  to  release  the  Netherlands  from 
the  tyranny  of  Spain  and  Rome.  As  Philip  was  proceed- 
ing on  board  the  ship  which  was  to  bear  him  for  ever  from 
the  Netherlands,  his  eyes  lighted  upon  the  Prince.  His 
displeasure  could  no  longer  be  restrained.  With  angry 
face  he  turned  upon  him,  and  bitterly  reproached  him  for 
having  thwarted  all  his  plans  by  means  of  his  secret  in- 
trigues. William  replied  with  humility  that  everything 
which  had  taken  place  had  been  done  through  the  regular 
and  natural  movements  of  the  states.  Upon  this  the  King, 
boiling  with  rage,  seized  the  Prince  by  the  wrist,  and, 
shaking  it  violently,  exclaimed  in  Spanish,  ‘ No  los  estados, 
ma  VOS,  VOS,  vos  I ’ — Not  the  estates,  but  you,  you,  you  ! — 
repeating  thrice  the  word  ‘ vos,’  which  is  as  disrespectful 
and  uncourteous  in  Spain  as  ‘ toi  ’ in  French.” 

That  was  26th  August,  1559.  Philip’s  fleet  consisted  of 
ninety  ships,  victualled,  among  other  articles,  with  fifteen 
thousand  capons,  and  laden  with  such  spoil  as  tapestry  and 
silks,  much  of  which  had  to  be  thrown  overboard  in  a storm 
to  lighten  the  labouring  vessels.  It  seemed  at  one  time  as 
if  the  fleet  must  founder,  but  Philip  reached  Spain  in  safety, 
and  hastened  to  celebrate  his  escape,  and  emphasise  his 
policy  of  a universal  religion,  by  an  extensive  auto  dafe. 

Flushing  did  not  actually  begin  the  war,  in  1572,  after  the 
capture  of  Brill  at  the  mouth  of  the  Maas,  by  the  Water 
Beggars  under  De  la  Marck,  but  it  was  the  first  town  to 
respond  to  that  invitation  of  revolt  against  Alva  and  Spain. 
The  foundations  of  the  Dutch  Republic  may  have  been 


ALVA’S  SPECTACLES 


297 


laid  at  Brill,  but  it  was  the  moral  support  of  Flushing  that 
established  them. 

The  date  of  the  capture  of  Brill  was  April  1st,  and 
Alva,  who  was  then  at  Brussels,  suffered  tortures  from  the 
Belgian  wits.  The  word  Brill,  by  a happy  chance,  signifies 
spectacles,  and  a couplet  was  sung  to  the  effect  that 

On  April  Fool’s  Day 

Duke  Alva’s  spectacles  were  stolen  away ; 

while,  says  Motley,  a caricature  was  circulated  depicting 
Alva’s  spectacles  being  removed  from  his  nose  by  De  la 
Marck,  while  the  Duke  uttered  his  habitual  comment 
’Tis  nothing.  ’Tis  nothing.” 

What,  however,  began  as  little  more  than  the  desperate 
deed  of  some  hungry  pirates,  to  satisfy  their  immediate 
needs,  was  soon  turned  into  a very  far-reaching  ‘‘some- 
thing,” by  the  action  of  Flushing,  whose  burghers,  under 
the  Seigneur  de  Herpt,  on  hearing  the  news  of  the  re- 
bellion of  Brill,  drove  the  Spanish  garrison  from  the  town. 
A number  of  Spanish  ships  chancing  to  an*ive  on  the  same 
•day,  bringing  reinforcements,  were  just  in  time  to  find  the 
town  in  arms.  Had  they  landed,  the  whole  revolt  might 
have  been  quelled,  but  a drunken  loafer  of  the  town,  in 
return  for  a pot  of  beer,  offered  to  fire  a gun  at  the  fleet 
from  the  ramparts.  He  was  allowed  to  do  so,  and  without 
a word  the  fleet  fell  into  a panic  and  sailed  away.  The 
day  was  won.  It  might  almost  be  said  that  that  shot — 
that  pot  of  beer — secured  the  freedom  of  the  Netherlands. 
Let  this  be  remembered  when  John  Barleycorn  is  before 
his  many  judges. 

A little  later  Brill  sent  help,  and  Flushing’s  independ- 
ence was  secure.  Motley  describes  this  band  of  assistants 
in  a picturesque  passage 


298 


PACHECO 


The  expedition  seemed  a fierce  but  whimsical  masquer- 
ade. Every  man  in  the  little  fleet  was  attired  in  the 
gorgeous  vestments  of  the  plundered  churches,  in  gold- 
embroidered  cassocks,  glittering  mass-garments,  or  the 
more  sombre  cowls  and  robes  of  Capuchin  friars.  So  sped 
the  early  standard  bearers  of  that  ferocious  liberty  which 
had  sprung  from  the  fires  in  which  all  else  for  which  men 
cherish  their  fatherland  had  been  consumed.  So  swept 
that  resolute  but  fantastic  band  along  the  placid  estuaries 
of  Zeeland,  waking  the  stagnant  waters  with  their  wild 
beggar  songs  and  cries  of  vengeance. 

‘‘That  vengeance  found  soon  a distinguished  object. 
Pacheco,  the  chief  engineer  of  Alva,  who  had  accompanied 
the  Duke  in  his  march  from  Italy,  who  had  since  earned  a 
world-wide  reputation  as  the  architect  of  the  Antwerp 
citadel,  had  been  just  despatched  in  haste  to  Flushing  to 
complete  the  fortress  whose  construction  had  been  so  long 
delayed.  Too  late  for  his  work,  too  soon  for  his  safety,  the 
ill-fated  engineer  had  arrived  almost  at  the  same  moment 
with  Treslong  and  his  crew.  He  had  stepped  on  shore, 
entirely  ignorant  of  all  which  had  transpired,  expecting  to 
be  treated  with  the  respect  due  to  the  chief  commandant  of 
the  place,  and  to  an  officer  high  in  the  confidence  of  the 
Governor-general.  He  found  himself  surrounded  by  an 
indignant  and  threatening  mob.  The  unfortunate  Italian 
understood  not  a word  of  the  opprobrious  language  ad- 
dressed to  him,  but  he  easily  comprehended  that  the 
authority  of  the  Duke  was  overthrown. 

“ Observing  De  Ryk,  a distinguished  partisan  officer  and 
privateersman  of  Amsterdam,  whose  reputation  for  bravery 
and  generosity  was  known  to  him,  he  approached  him,  and 
drawing  a seal  ring  from  his  finger  kissed  it,  and  handed  it 
to  the  rebel  chieftain.  By  this  dumb-show  he  gave  him  to 


ELIZABETH  BAS 

REMBRANDT 

From  the  picture  in  the  Ryks  Aliiseum 


AND  HIS  FATE 


299 


understand  that  he  relied  upon  his  honor  for  the  treat- 
ment due  to  a gentleman.  De  Ryk  understood  the  appeal, 
and  would  willingly  have  assured  him,  at  least,  a soldier’s 
death,  but  he  was  powerless  to  do  so.  He  arrested  him, 
that  he  might  be  protected  from  the  fury  of  the  rabble ; 
but  Treslong,  who  now  commanded  in  Flushing,  was 
especially  incensed  against  the  founder  of  the  Antwerp 
citadel,  and  felt  a ferocious  desire  to  avenge  his  brother’s 
murder  upon  the  body  of  his  destroyer’s  favourite. 

Pacheco  was  condemned  to  be  hanged  upon  the  very 
day  of  his  arrival.  Having  been  brought  forth  from  his 
prison,  he  begged  hard  but  not  abjectly  for  his  life.  He 
offered  a heavy  ransom,  but  his  enemies  were  greedy  for 
blood,  not  for  money.  It  was,  however,  difficult  to  find  an 
executioner.  The  city  hangman  was  absent,  and  the  pre- 
judice  of  the  country  and  the  age  against  the  vile  pro- 
fession had  assuredly  not  been  diminished  during  the  five 
horrible  years  of  Alva’s  administration.  Even  a condemned 
murderer,  who  lay  in  the  town  gaol,  refused  to  accept  his 
life  in  recompence  for  performing  the  office.  It  should 
never  be  said,  he  observed,  that  his  mother  had  given  birth 
to  a hangman.  When  told,  however,  that  the  intended 
victim  was  a Spanish  officer,  the  malefactor  consented  to 
the  task  with  alacrity,  on  condition  that  he  might  after- 
wards kill  any  man  who  taunted  him  with  the  deed. 

‘‘  Arrived  at  the  foot  of  the  gallows,  Pacheco  complained 
bitterly  of  the  disgraceful  death  designed  for  him.  He 
protested  loudly  that  he  came  of  a house  as  noble  as  that 
of  Egmont  or  Hoorn,  and  was  entitled  to  as  honourable 
an  execution  as  theirs  had  been.  ^ The  sword  ! the  sword ! ’ 
he  frantically  exclaimed,  as  he  struggled  with  those  who 
guarded  him.  His  language  was  not  understood,  but  the 
name  of  Egmont  and  Hoorn  inflamed  still  more  highly  the 


300 


DE  RUYTER 


rage  of  the  rabble,  while  his  cry  for  the  sword  was  falsely 
interpreted  by  a rude  fellow  who  had  happened  to  possess 
himself  of  Pacheco’s  rapier,  at  his  capture,  and  who  now 
paraded  himself  with  it  at  the  gallows  foot.  ^ Never  fear 
for  your  sword,  Senor,’  cried  this  ruffian ; ‘ your  sword  is 
safe  enough,  and  in  good  hands.  Up  the  ladder  with  you, 
Senor ; you  have  no  further  use  for  your  sword.’  Pacheco, 
thus  outraged,  submitted  to  his  fate.  He  mounted  the 
ladder  with  a steady  step,  and  was  hanged  between  two 
other  Spanish  officers. 

So  perished  miserably  a brave  soldier,  and  one  of  the 
most  distinguished  engineers  of  his  time ; a man  whose 
character  and  accomplishments  had  certainly  merited  for 
him  a better  fate.  But  while  we  stigmatize  as  it  deserves 
the  atrocious  conduct  of  a few  Netherland  partisans,  we 
should  remember  who  first  unchained  the  demon  of  inter- 
national hatred  in  this  unhappy  land,  nor  should  it  ever  be 
forgotten  that  the  great  leader  of  the  revolt,  by  word, 
proclamation,  example,  by  entreaties,  threats,  and  condign 
punishment,  constantly  rebuked  and,  to  a certain  extent,  re- 
strained the  sanguinary  spirit  by  which  some  of  his  followers 
disgraced  the  noble  cause  which  they  had  espoused.” 

Flushing'^s  hero  is  De  Ruyter,  whose  rope-walk  wheel  we 
saw  at  Middelburg,  and  whose  truculent  lineaments  have  so 
often  frowned  at  us  from  the  walls  of  picture  gallery  and 
stadhuis  throughout  the  country — almost  without  excep- 
tion from  the  hand  of  Ferdinand  Bol,  or  a copyist. 

Scratch  a sea-dog  and  you  find  a pirate;  De  Ruyter, 
who  stands  in  stone  for  all  time  by  Flushing  harbour, 
lacking  the  warranty  of  war  would  have  been  a Paul  Jones 
beyond  eulogy.  You  can  see  it  in  his  strong  brows,  his 
determined  mouth,  his  every  line.  It  is  only  two  hundred 
and  thirty-seven  years,  only  seven  generations,  since  he  was 


THE  MIDDELBURG  KERMIS 


301 


in  the  Thames  with  his  fleet,  and  London  was  panic- 
stricken.  No  enemy  has  been  there  since.  The  English 
had  their  revenge  in  1809,  when  they  bombarded  Flushing 
and  reduced  it  to  only  a semblance  of  what  it  had  been. 
Among  the  beautiful  buildings  which  our  cannon  balls 
destroyed  was  the  ancient  stadhuis.  Hence  it  is  that 
Flushing’s  stadhuis  to-day  is  a mere  recent  upstart. 

Flushing  does  little  to  amuse  its  visitors  after  the  sun 
has  left  the  sea ; and  we  were  very  glad  of  the  excuse  oflFered 
by  the  Middelburg  kermis  to  return  to  our  inland  city 
each  afternoon.  The  Middelburg  kermis  is  a particularly 
merry  one.  The  stalls  and  roundabouts  fill  the  market 
square  before  the  stadhuis,  packed  so  closely  that  the  re- 
volving horses  nearly  carry  the  poffertje  restaurants  round 
with  them.  The  Dutch  roundabouts,  by  the  way,  still, 
like  the  English,  retain  horses : they  have  not,  like  the 
French,  as  I noticed  at  three  fairs  in  and  about  Paris  last 
autumn,  taken  to  pigs  and  rabbits. 

I examined  the  Middelburg  kermis  very  thoroughly. 
Few  though  the  exhibits  were,  they  included  two  fat 
women.  Their  booths  stood  on  opposite  sides  of  the  square, 
all  the  fun  of  the  fair  between  them.  In  the  west  was 
Mile.  Jeanne;  in  the  east  the  Princess  Sexiena.  Jeanne 
^ was  French,  Sexiena  came  from  the  Fatherland.  Both, 
though  rivals,  used  the  same  poster : a picture  of  a lady, 
enormous,  decolletee,  highly-coloured,  stepping  into  a fiacre, 
to  the  cocher’s  intense  alarm.  Before  one  inspected  the 
rival  giantesses  this  community  of  advertisement  had  seemed 
to  be  a mistake  ; after,  its  absurdity  was  only  too  apparent, 
for  although  the  Princess  was  colossal.  Mile.  Jeanne  was 
more  so.  Mile.  Jeanne  should  therefore  have  employed  an 
artist  to  make  an  independent  allurement. 

Both  also  displayed  outside  the  booths  a pair  of  corsets, 


302 


THE  GIANTESSES 


but  bere,  I fancy,  the  advantage  was  with  Mile.  Jeanne, 
although  such  were  the  distractions  of  the  square  that 
it  was  difficult  to  keep  relative  sizes  in  mind  as  one 
crossed  it. 

We  visited  the  Princess  first  and  found  her  large  enough. 
She  gasped  on  a dais — it  was  the  hottest  week  of  the  year. 
She  was  happy,  she  said,  except  in  such  warmth.  She  was 
not  married  : Princes  had  sighed  for  her  in  vain.  She  rode 
a bicycle  she  assured  us,  and  enjoyment  in  the  incredulity 
of  her  hearers  was  evidently  one  of  her  pleasures.  Her 
manager  listened  impatiently,  for  our  conversation  in- 
terrupted his  routine ; he  then  took  his  oath  that  she  was 
not  padded,  and  bade  her  exhibit  her  leg.  She  did  so,  and 
it  was  like  the  mast  of  a ship. 

I dropped  five  cents  into  her  plate  and  passed  on  to  Mile. 
Jeanne.  The  Princess  had  been  large  enough  ; Mile.  Jeanne 
was  larger.  She  wore  her  panoply  of  flesh  less  like  a flower 
than  did  her  rival.  Her  expression  was  less  placid ; she 
panted  distressfully  as  she  fanned  her  bulk.  But  in  con- 
versation she  relaxed.  She  too  was  happy,  except  in  such 
heat.  She  neither  rode  a bicycle  nor  walked — save  two  or 
three  steps.  As  her  name  indicated,  she  too  was  unmarried, 
although,  her  manager  interjected,  few  wives  could  make 
a better  omelette.  But  men  are  cowai’ds,  and  such  for- 
tresses very  formidable. 

As  we  talked,  the  manager,  who  had  entered  the  booth 
as  blase  an  entrepreneur  as  the  Continent  holds,  showed 
signs  of  animation.  In  time  he  grew  almost  enthusiastic 
and  patted  Mlle.’s  arms  with  pride.  He  assisted  her  to 
exhibit  her  leg  quite  as  though  its  glories  were  also  his. 
The  Princess’s  leg  had  been  like  the  mast  of  a ship ; this 
was  like  the  trunk  of  a Burnham  beech. 

And  here,  at  Flushing,  we  leave  the  country.  I should 


BELGIUM  UNATTAINABLE 


303 


have  liked  to  have  steamed  down  the  Scheldt  to  Antwerp 
on  one  of  the  ships  that  continually  pass,  if  only  to  be 
once  more  among  the  friendly  francs  with  their  notice- 
able purchasing  power,  and  to  saunter  again  through  the 
Plantin  Museum  among  the  ghosts  of  old  printers,  and 
to  stand  for  a while  in  the  Museum  before  Van  Eyck’s 
delicious  drawing  of  Saint  Barbara.  But  it  must  not  be. 
This  is  not  a Belgian  book,  but  a Dutch  book  ; and  here 
it  ends. 


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INDEX 


A 

Aanspreker,  The^  lo 

Aertz,  Jan  Ter  ween,  36 

A Kempis,  Thomas,  103,  254 

Alkmaar,  206-213,  266 

Alva,  Duke  of,  140, 141, 210, 258, 297 

Amsterdam,  153-183,  185,  261 

Anabaptists,  113 

Antwerp,  303 

Arminians,  37 

Arnheim,  261-268 

B 

Baerle,  Van,  266,  268 
Barbizon  Painters,  68,  70-72,  180 
Barges,  5,  6,  231 
Barneveldt,  38,  72-75 
Beckford,  William,  quoted,  121 
Beggars  of  the  Sea,  297 
Begijnen,  The,  164 
Belloc,  Mr.  Hilaire,  quoted,  61 
Bells,  61,  166,  289 
Berchem,  Nicolas,  148 
Bergen-op-Zoom,  42,  204,  283 
Berlikum,  248 
Bilderdyk,  269 
Binnenhof,  The,  72 
Biographical  Memoirs  of  Extraordi- 
nary Painters,  121 
Bol,  Ferdinand,  13,  35 
Bolsward,  232 
Bommel,  280 
Boompoel,  The,  249 
Bos,  Mr.,  242 
Bosboom,  Johannes,  14,  69 
Bosch,  The,  80 
Boxum,  248 
Boymans  Museum,  13 


Breda,  281 

Breitner,  G.  H.,  36,  158 
Brill,  297 
Broek,  197 

Brouwer,  Adrian,  70,  148 

C 

Canals,  2,  5,  6,  154 
Cats,  Jacob,  85-90,  267 
Chambers  of  Rhetoric,  263 
Charlemagne’s  Prayer,  278 
Charles  V.,  295 
Cheese,  207 

Christening  Customs,  227 
Coen,  Jan  Pieters,  215 
Colloquia  Peripatetica,  103 
Congress  of  Dort,  36-37 
Corbeille,  Mr.,  quoted,  45 
Cornellissen,  Jan,  201 
Corot,  71,  181 
Coryate,  Thomas,  84 
Cuyp,  Albert,  13,  33,  44,  240 

D 

Dam,  The,  159 

Darnley,  Lord,  219 

Davies  quoted,  37,  38,  73,  75,  163 

Death,  10 

De  Bossu,  215 

De  Hooch,  Peter,  12,  179,  182 
Dekker,  Edward  Douwes,  169 
Delft,  48-62 

De  Ruyter,  218,  219,  291,  300 
De  Sonoy,  215 
Deventer,  254 
De  Witt,  Cornelius,  39,  75 

John, 75 

Diaz,  71 


20 


306 


INDEX 


Dircksz,  Peter,  201 
Dirckzoon,  Cornelius,  199,  216 
Dobson,  Mr.  Austin,  quoted,  86 
Doelens,  251 
Dogs,  238 
Dokkum,  245 
Dordrecht,  30-40 
Dou,  Gerard,  118, 122 
Dumas,  Alexandre,  39,  250 
Dutch  Architecture,  45 

— Books,  79 

— Chemists,  ii 

— Churches,  44,  134,  164 

— Civility,  26,  240 

— Cleanliness,  5,  282 
“ — Courage,”  29 

— Evening  Habits,  79 

— Gardening,  129 

— Houses,  154,  181,  229 

— Inns,  18,  185 

— Language,  268,  274 

— Love-making,  198,  228 

— Manners  to  strangers,  27,  42,  240 

— Morality,  260 

— Music  Halls,  165 

— National  Anthem,  279 
“ — News,”  28 

— Painting,  173-175,  181 

— Phlegm,  199 

— Precision,  63 

— Railways,  184 

— Religion,  21 

— Scenery,  2 

— Servants,  9 

— Steam-trams,  94 

— Weddings,  161 

— Wives,  162 
Dykes,  64,  220,  241 

£ 

Earle,  John,  24 
Edam,  200 

Eisinga,  Eisa,  244,  247 
Engelbert  I.,  281 

English  Schole-M aster y They  24,  269 
Enkhuisen,  224 
Erasmus,  ii,  103,  135,  252 
Evelyn,  John,  quoted,  102 

F 

Fabritius,  58 


Fell,  R.,  quoted,  26,  144,  233 
Feltham,  Owen,  24,  155 
Florin,  The,  7 
Flushing,  294 
Fodor  Museum,  183 
Franeker,  244 

Frederick,  Don,  137,  189,  209 
Friesland,  229,  235,  245 
Frogs,  241 

G 

George  IL,  280 
Gerard,  Balthazar,  50 
Gevangenpoort,  The,  78 
Giantesses,  The,  301 
Goldsmith,  Oliver,  97-102 
Gomarians,  37 
Gorinchem,  40-43 

Gosse,  Mr.  Edmund,  quoted,  266- 
267 

Gothamites,  256 
Gouda,  18 

Goyen,  Jan  van,  109 
Grimston  and  Redhead,  283 
Groningen,  251 
Grotius,  41,  55,  293 
Guelder,  The  (see  Florin) 
Gutenberg,  136 

H 

Haarlem,  128-152 
Hagthorpe,  John,  22 
Hague,  The,  63-84 
Hals,  Dirck,  147 
— Frans,  145 -152,  176 
Handel,  144 
Haring,  John,  215,  217 
Harlingen,  242 
Hasselaer,  Kenau,  143 
Havard,  Henri,  quoted,  59, 171,  221, 
224,  227,  242,  257,  291 
Heemstra,  Van,  231 
Helder,  The,  220 

Heist,  Bartholomew  van  der,  147, 176 
Helvoet,  280 
Heranguiere,  281 
Hertzogenbosch,  279 
Heyden,  Van  der,  43 
Hillegom,  128 
Hilversum,  10,  186 
Hindeloopen,  229 


INDEX 


807 


Hobbema,  13 
Hoboken,  Mr.  Van,  16 
Hogarth,  112 

Hooch,  Peter  de  (see  Dc  Hooch) 
Hood,  Thomas,  17,  264 
Hooft,  Peter  Cornellissen,  194 
Hook  of  Holland,  i 
Hoorn,  213-220 
Hortensius,  192 
Hotel  Porters,  222 
Howell,  James,  82 
Huilebalk,  The,  10 
Huizen,  188 

Huyghens,  Constantin,  85,  265 

I 

Ireland,  Samuel,  quoted,  26,  60, 120, 
166,  178,  233 

Israels,  Joseph,  14,  145,  251 

j 

Jan  of  Leyden,  113-118 
Jansen,  Zacharias,  291 
Jaureguy,  50 
Julfer  Lysse,  249 

K 

Kampen,  255 
Katwyk,  92 
Kermis,  The,  104,  301 
Kever,  Trijntje,  201 
Knipperdollinch,  115 
Koster,  Laurens,  136 

L 

Lange  Jacob,  231 
Laren,  187 
Leeuwarden,  235-249 
— Guide-book,  245 
Leeuwenhoek,  Antony  van,  57 
Lennep,  Mr,  Van,  quoted,  152 
Leyden,  94-127 
Lighthouse,  The,  220 
Lohengrin^  277 
Longfellow,  H.  W.,  149,  263 
Love-making,  198,  228 
Lucas  van  Leyden,  12^ 

Luther,  135,  252 


M 

Mabuse,  286 
Maes,  Nicolas,  34,  178 
Mandeville,  Bernard,  40 
Maris,  James,  14,  181 

— Matthew,  14,  145,  181 
Mar  ken,  195 

Marnix,  Elizabeth,  57 
Marssum,  247 
Marvell,  Andrew,  19-22 
Mary,  Queen  of  Scots,  2ig 
Maurice,  Prince,  37,  74 
Mauritshuis,  The,  66-69 
Mauve,  Anton,  14,  187,  205 
Max  HavelaaVf  167 
Maximilian  of  Burgundy,  293 
Medemblik,  223 
Mendoza  quoted,  193 
Mermaid,  The,  202 
Mesdag,  H.  W.,  14,  70,  251 
Mesdag  Museum,  70 
Metsu,  Gabriel,  121 
Michel,  Georges,  71 
Middelburg,  285,  301 
Mieris,  Franz  van,  120 

— William  van,  120 
Monnickendam,  198 

Montagu,  Lady  Mary  Wortley, 
quoted,  8,  277 

Motley  quoted,  50-54,  124,  I37-I43» 
189,  194,  209,  215,  216,  258, 
296,  298 
Muiden,  194 
Muiderburg,  194 
“ Multatuli,”  167 
Munster,  114 
Music  Halls,  287 

N 

Naarden,  188 
Nieuwediep,  220 
Noordwyk,  93 
Nottingham,  277 
Nymwegen,  276 

O 

Ostcrlen,  the  shipowner,  202 
Overbury,  Sir  Thomas,  25 


308 


INDEX 


P 

Pacheco,  298 

Paint,  Green,  204,  245,  2893 
Parma,  Prince  of,  50 
Pearson,  Prof.  Karl,  quoted,  113 
Peat,  253 

Peter  the  Great,  205 
Philip  II.,  296 
Phillips,  Sir  Richard,  28 
Planetarium,  The,  244 
Poffertjes,  105 
Poppema,  Bauck,  248 
Postcards,  Picture,  260 
Potter,  Paul,  66,  224 
Printing,  136 
Prior,  Matthew,  81 
Proverbs,  279 
Purmerend,  203 

Q 

Queen-Mother,  16 

R 

Radbod,  223 
Regent  Pieces,  146 
Rembrandt,  64,  66,  107,  118,  119, 
157, 176-178, 183 
Rhine,  The,  3,  276 
Rotterdam,  1-18 
Ruisdael,  Jacob  van,  149 
Ryks  Museum,  175-180 
Rynsburg,  92 

S 

St.  Jacobie  Parochie,  238,  240 
Santvoort,  Dirck  van,  133 
Schalcken,  Godfried,  119 
Scheffer,  Ary,  35 
Scheveningen,  90-92 
Schouten,  Willem,  215 
Scorel,  Jan  van,  14,  46,  147 
Sidney,  Sir  Philip,  257 
Sieges,  137,  209,  283,  288 
Six,  Jan,  182 
Sneek,  231 
Souburg,  295 

Spanish  War,  37,  124,  137, 189,  209, 
215,  258,  280,  281,  283,  288, 
296 


Spinoza,  92 

Stadelijks  Museum,  18 1 

Stavoren,  226 

Steen,  Jan,  109-113  f 

Steengracht,  Baron,  his  pictures,  70 

Stoofjes,  22 

Stork,  The,  15,  240 

Suasso  Rooms,  181 

Synod  of  Dort,  37 

T 

Tasman,  Abel,  215 

Temple,  Sir  William,  25,  224,  282 

Terburg,  Gerard,  179,  253 

Texel,  223,  262 

Tholen,  204,  284 

Through  Noovd  - Holland  quoted, 
133,  136,  144, 166, 187, 194,  197, 
202,  203,  208 
Tobacco,  232 
Tortures,  78 
Trams,  159 
Tromp,  Admiral,  56 
Tulipe  Noire^  La,  39,  129 
Tulips,  128 

U 

Urk,  257 
Utrecht,  43-47 

V 

Veere,  292 

Venice,  33,  153 

Venne,  Van  der,  287 

Vermeer  of  Delft,  12,  58,  67-68,  178 

Villa  Names,  132 

Visscher,  Anna,  266 

— Roemer,  262 

— Tesselschade,  262 
Volendam,  202 
Vondel,  214,  265 
Vyver,  The,  66 

W 

Wafelen,  105 
Walcheren,  285 
Waxworks,  259 
Werf,  Van  der,  124 
Whitman,  Walt,  4 


\ 

INDEX 


309 


Widow’s  Corn,  The,  227 
Wild  Girl  of  Kampen,  The,  255 
Wilhelmina,  Queen,  160 
William  the  Silent,  49-55,  127,  213, 
288,  296 
Windmills,  204 
Wine,  8 

Woudrichem,  40 


Z 

Zaandam,  204 
Zaandvoort,  132 
Zeeland,  285 
Zutphen,  257 

Zuyder  Zee,  199,  202,  214,  226 
Zwolle,  253 


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